i  ^ ' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


TRAVELLER'S   JOY 


Historic  is  my  chiefe  studie,  Pocsie  my  only  delight, 
to  which  I  am  particularly  aftected  :  for  as  Cleanthes  said, 
that  as  the  voice  being  forciblie  pent  in  the  narrow  gullet 
of  a  trumpet,  at  last  issueth  forth  more  strong  and  shriller, 
so  me  seemes,  that  a  sentence  cunningly  and  closely 
couched  in  measure-keeping  Posie,  darts  itselfe  forth 
more  furiously,  and  wounds  me  even  to  the  quicke. 

Montaigne,  "Essays,"  I.  25. 


TRAVELLER'S  JOY 


COMPILED   BY 

W.  G.  WATERS 


...  an  eternal  book 

Whence  I  may  copy  many  a  lovely  saying 
About  the  leaves,  and  flowers— about  the  playing 
Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains ;  and  the  shade 
Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid  ; 
And  many  a  verse  from  so  strange  influence 
That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence 

It  came. 

Keats. 


NEW    YORK 

E.    P.   DUTTON   &   CO. 
1906 


PLYMOUTH 

W.    BRENDON    AND   SON,    LIMITED 
PRINTERS 


GIFT 


q  n 


PREFACE 

THE  work  of  the  contemporary  anthologist  must 
needs  differ  both  in  character  and  in  aim  from 
that  of  him  who  gleaned  in  the  scantier  field  of  the 
past,  seeing  that  every  succeeding  decacUi  has  largely 
increased  the  literary  store  from  which  he  may  gather. 
Fresh  volumes  of  selections  follow  one  another 
without  intermission,  and  these,  with  a  few  marked 
exceptions,  quickly  sink  into  oblivion  ;  but  the 
supply  of  anthologists  seems  as  inexhaustible  as 
that  of  ungarnered  masterpieces.  Various  reasons 
may  be  advanced  for  this  persistence.  The  fact 
that  all  the  great  prizes  have  been  appropriated 
and  set  finally  in  the  treasury  of  immortal  achieve- 
ment will  not  daunt  the  searcher  who  is  really  in 
earnest.  The  ardour  of  the  chase  waxes  with  the 
rarity  of  the  prey.  The  wealth  of  our  literature  is 
so  immense  !  How  many  fascinating  byways  are 
there  which  are  only  familiar  to  the  diligent  student, 
and  of  those  which  are  thoroughly  explored  only 
an  inconsiderable  portion  is  known  to  the  general 
v 


reader.  The  repose  of  many  of  the  famous  volumes, 
which  have  charmed  past  generations,  grows  ever 
more  profound  and  undisturbed  by  reason  of  the 
perverted  humour  of  the  age,  which  ostentatiously 
postpones  the  claims  of  literary  excellence  to  those 
of  superficial  novelty.  In  turning  over  their  neg- 
lected pages  the  anthologist  may  now  and  again 
feel  something  of  the  wonder  and  delight  of  Cortes 
on  the  peak  as  he  disinters  from  its  musty  obscurity 
some  fragment  rich  in  imagery  and  ringing  with 
quaint  melody.  Moreover,  he  may  harbour  pride 
fully  justified  as  he  places  his  treasure  where  it 
may  readily  meet  the  eyes  of  those  who,  albeit 
appreciative  of  good  literature,  have  little  or  no 
leisure  to  search  on  their  own  account. 

One  reason  of  the  survival  of  the  anthologist  lies 
in  the  fact  that,  if  he  is  of  the  true  grit,  he  never 
finds  a  collection  made  by  another  hand  to  be 
entirely  satisfactory.  He  detects  numerous  faults 
of  omission  and  inclusion,  and  he  dreams  the 
while  of  an  ideal  public  whose  wants  in  the 
matter  of  anthologies  have  been  completely 
neglected.  If  he  is  wise  he  will  provide  especially 
for  those  summer  and  autumn  travellers  — 
cycling  or  with  a  knapsack — who  would  fain  bear 
with  them  some  light  store  of  literary  provender. 
Collections  professing  to  cater  for  these  have  ap- 
peared from  time  to  time,  most  of  them  taken 
vi 


largely  from  modern  writers,  and  incidentally  they 
have  done  good  service  in  introducing  the  younger 
generation  of  literary  workers  to  some  who,  too 
fastidiously,  ignore  all  but  the  great  writers  of  the 
past ;  but  a  common  mistake  in  many  of  these 
has  been  the  allowance  of  novelty  or  of  well- 
worn  familiarity  as  qualification  for  admittance. 
Search  will  show  that  numerous  treasures  of  our 
earlier  literature  still  remain  unknown  except  to 
the  few,  and  to  make  some  of  these  known  to  the 
many  is  the  object  of  "Traveller's  Joy."  It  is  by  the 
taste  of  these  enticing  morsels  of  good  literary  fare 
that  men,  hitherto  indifferent,  may  be  led  to  make 
a  full  meal  of  the  same.  The  board  will  be  none 
the  less  tempting  if  it  should  prove  to  be  plenti- 
fully garnished  with  the  spoil  of  years  lying  nearer 
to  our  golden  prime. 

There  is  some  truth  in  the  jibe  that  men  talk  of 
the  classics  more  than  they  read  them  ;  wherefore 
no  apology  will  be  offered  for  the  inclusion  of  cer- 
tain pieces  with  which  every  reader  might  be 
supposed  to  be  familiar.  In  this  age  of  hurry 
few  have  the  time — though  they  may  have  the 
taste — for  retrospective  reading,  and  many  of  the 
stanzas  within,  which  the  critic  will  know  by 
heart,  will  be  rare  and  strange  to  the  Joyful 
Traveller. 

"  Traveller's  Joy  "  is  compiled  for  the  student  in 
vii 


posse  rather  than  in  esse :  a  guide  to  those  flowery 
wildernesses  which  lie  a  little  off  the  beaten  track, 
and  it  may  be  hoped  that  those  who  find  novelty 
may  also  find  pleasure  therein.  Those  who,  in 
their  fuller  experience,  may  meet  old  friends  will 
surely  give  them  that  greeting  which  old  friends 
deserve. 


THE  compiler  desires  to  tender  his  acknowledgments 
and  thanks  to  Mr.  Swinburne,  Mr.  Bridges,  Mr.  Bour- 
dillon,  Mr.  Binyon,  and  Mr.  Watts-Dunton  for  their 
kind  permission  to  make  use  of  such  of  their  poems  as 
appear  in  this  volume.  Mr.  Alfred  Nutt  and  Mr. 
Lloyd  Osbourne,  representing  severally  Mrs.  Henley 
and  Mrs.  Stevenson,  have  permitted  the  insertion  of 
certain  of  Henley's  poems  and  of  the  extract  from 
"Prince  Otto."  Mr.  George  Allen  has  also  signified 
his  approval  of  the  use  of  W.  Cory's  poems,  taken  from 
"lonica." 


TABLE   OF    CONTENTS 


SPRING:   FOR   YOUTH 


SPRING          . 

SONG 

ROSALYND'S  MADRIGAL 
THE  SHEPHEARD'S  DAFFADIL 

SONG 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT 

ON  CLASSICAL  EDUCATION   . 

LOVE  POEM  . 

IN  A  SHADED  GARDEN 

SONG 

SONG 

SONG 

STANZAS         . 

SONNETS        . 

ESSAYS  XXX  AND  CCVII     . 

LOVE  IN  IDLENESS 

A  LYRIC  TO  MIRTH 

SONG 

LOVE  POEM  . 


PAGE 
2 


Ed.  Spenser 

John  Fletcher  3 

Thomas  Lodge  4 

Michael  Drayton  5 

John  Dow  land  7 

R.  Browning  8 

William  Hazlitt  9 

Robert  Jones  14 

Lawence  Hinyon  14 

Thomas  Campion  16 

Thomas  Campion  17 

John  Donne  17 

W.  Shaksperc  19 

Michael  Dray  ton  20 

R.  SteeJe  22 
Thos.  Lovell  Bediioes  30 

A\  Herrick  32 

Sir  W.  Raleigh  33 

Thomas  Campion  34 


PAGE 

No.  Ill W.  E.  Henley  35 

IN  THREE  DAYS    .         .         .  R.  Browning  36 

YOUTH'S  AGITATIONS    .         .  M.  Arnold  37 

SONG       .....  Thomas  Carew  38 

His  DISCOURSE  WITH  CUPID  Btnjonson  39 

SONG      .         .         .         .         .  R.  Browning  41 

THE  SHEPHERD  BOY     .         .  Samuel  Pepys  43 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS     .  R.  Browning  47 

LOVE  POEMS           .         .         .  Nicholas  Breton  50 

PSYCHE  .....  Laurence  Binyon  51 

SONG       .....  Thomas  Campion  54 

SONNET John  Keats  55 

THREE  BROTHERS          .         .  Giovanni  Francesco 

Slraparola  55 

ODE        .         .         .  Samuel  Daniel  60 

SONG       .....  Sir  W.  Davenant  6 1 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  WIFE'S  SONG  Robert  Greene  62 

DAYBREAK      ....  William  Blake  64 

MAY  AND  DEATH  .         .         .  Robert  Browning  64 


SUMMER:    FOR  MANHOOD 

SUMMER         ....  Ed.  Spenser  68 

ELEGY  ON  A  LADY        .         .  R.  Bridges  69 

ENVY      .....  Anon  71 

THE  SCRUTINIE     .         .         .  R.  Lovelace  72 

To  EVENING.                         .  W.  Collins  73 

MAY  EVENING       .         .         .  Laurence  Binyon      76 

FROM  THE  FAERIE  QUEEN  .  Ed.  Spenser  77 

SONG R-  Bridges  77 

xii 


ESSAY  X 
SONNETS        . 
SIREN  CHORUS 

SONG 

FROM  COMUS 

LETTER  

A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 
THE  POET'S  SONG 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE     . 
LOVE'S  DEITY 

LYRIC 

SONNET 

FEDERIGO  AND  THE  FALCON 
THE  WINDMILL     . 
BALLAD  OF  THE  DARK  LADIIS 
THE  POET     .... 
THE  MILKMAID    . 
SUMMER  TEMPEST 
A  DEDICATION 
SONNETS        . 
REFLECTIONS  ON  DEATH 
JACK  AND  JOAN     . 
SONG  OF  A  MAID  . 
GREAT  GOD  PAN  . 
LAST  NIGHT  .... 
To  CHLORIS  .... 
PRINCESS  CINDERELLA  . 
THE  LOVER'S  Vow 
MY  TRUE  LOVE    . 


PAGE 

Joseph  Addison  78 

W.  Shakspere  83 

George  Darley  84 

Anon  85 

/.  Milton  85 

Tobias  Smollet  89 

E.  B.  Browning  95 
Lord  Tennyson  97 
R.  Herrick  98 
John  Donne  100 

T.  Campion  102 

S.  Daniel  103 

Giovanni  Boccaccio  103 

R.  Bridges  ill 

S.  T.  Coleridge  112 

Lord  Tennyson  1 19 

Isaac  Walton  121 

R.  Bridges  126 

F.  W.  Bourdillon  126 
S.  Daniel  127 
Thomas  de  Qu  imey  129 
Thomas  Campion  132 
T.  Lovell  Beddocs  134 

J.  Fletcher  135 

George  Darley  135 

C.  Cotton  136 

R.  L.  Stevenson  137 

T.  Lodge  150 

Sir  P.  Sidney  151 


PAGE 


PRAISE  OF  HIS  FAIREST  LOVE  Nicholas  Breton  152 

To  CCELIA                                 .  C.  Cotton  154 

To  FLAVIA             .        .        .  £.  Waller  155 

WHAT  THE  VOICES  SAID       .  7'ke.odort  Watts- 

D  union  156 

AUTUMN:    FOR  MATURITY 

AUTUMN         .  Ed.  Spenser  158 

IT  is  NOT  BEAUTY  I  DEMAND  George  Darley  159 

FROM  THE  CLIFFS  :   NOON    .  D.  G.  Rossetti  160 

THE  GARDEN         .        .         .  A.  Marvell  161 

INVOCATION  TO  PAN     .        .  /.  Keats  164 

LETTER Horace  Walpole  166 

ROBIN  HOOD          .        .         .  /.  Keats  171 

ON  THE  RHINE     .        .        .  M.  Arnold  174 

A  WOMAN     .        .         .        .  W.  E.  Henley  175 

HERACLITUS  .        .        .        .  W.  Cory  175 

FROM  HYDRIOTAPHIA  .        .  Sir  T.  Browne  176 

ISEULT  OF  IRELAND      .         .  Matthew  Arnold  180 

A  SONG                                    .  W.  Cory  187 

DOWNS  AT  EVE     .        .         .  W.  E.  Henley  188 

THE  MESSAGE        .        .         .  John  Donne  189 

LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE   .         .  Lord  Tennyson  189 

ON  READING  OLD  BOOKS     .  W.  Hazlitt  199 

A  MIND  CONTENT         .         .  R.  Greene  215 

AN  INVOCATION                      .  W.  Cory  216 

THE  PHILOSOPHER        .        .  R.  Bridges  218 

LONGING        .        .         .        .  M.  Arnold  219 

THE  RED  FISHERMAN  .        .  W.  M.  Praed  220 
xiv 


PAGE 

KING  AND  SLAVE  . 

W.  E.  Henley 

229 

THE  LATEST  DECALOGUE 

A.  H.  C  lough 

230 

A  LEAVE-TAKING  . 

A.  C.  Swinburne 

231 

AN  INVECTIVE  AGAINST  LOVE 

T.  Watson 

233 

WINTER:    FOR 

DECLINE 

WINTER         .... 

Ed.  Spenser 

235 

SONG      

Thomas  Campion 

237 

CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

Sir  H.  Wot  ton 

238 

SONG      

Lord  Tennyson 

239 

YOUTH  AND  CALM 

M.  Arnold 

240 

THE  ROSE     .... 

W.  E.  Henley 

241 

COME  NOT     .... 

Lord  Tennyson 

241 

ADVANCING  AGE   . 

Edward  Gibbon 

242 

THE  NAMELESS  ONE     . 

J.  C.  Mangan 

246 

ALL  is  WELL        .        .        . 

A.  H.  dough 

248 

OLD  AND  NEW 

F.  W.  Bourdillon 

249 

To  .... 

Lord  Tennyson 

249 

PARAPHRASE  OF  HORACE 

/.  Dryden 

250 

To  R.  T.  H.  B.      . 

W.  E.  Henley 

251 

CONTENT        .... 

Sir  Edward  Dyer(?} 

252 

SIR  PETER     .... 

T.  L.  Peacock 

253 

A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN  . 

A.  C.  Swinburne 

254 

LIFE       

Bishop  King 

258 

STANZAS         .... 

John  Keats 

258 

DEATH  AND  SLEEP 

Sir  T.  Browne 

259 

THE  DYING  MAN  . 

G.  Sewell 

264 

IN  MY  OWN  ALBUM     . 

C.  Lamb 

265 

MORALITY      .... 

M.  Arnold 

266 

FAERY  SONG  .... 
MlMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH 
FROM  THE  FAERIE  QUEEN  . 

DECAY 

A  SOLDIER'S  LETTER  . 
YOUTH  AND  AGE  . 

STORM 

FAREWELL  TO  ARMS 

TIME 

SONNETS        .... 
STANZAS         .... 
DREAM  PEDLARY  . 
AMICUS  REDIVIVUS 

DIRGE    

EPITAPH  ON  A  JACOBITE 

CHORUS 

DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR  . 
ESSAY  CCLXVI     . 

SONNET 

TIME 

INVOCATION  .... 

DIRGE    

DEATH'S  SUMMONS 
REGRETS        .... 
MEN  OF  GENIUS    . 
A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL    . 
NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  . 


PAGE 

/.  Keats  268 

W.  Cory  269 

Ed.  Spenser  270 

F.  W.  Bourdillon    270 
R.  Steel e  271 
T.  L.  Peacock  277 
W.  £.  Henley  279 

G.  Peele  280 
P.  B.  Shelley  281 
W.  Shakspere  281 

/.  Mundy  283 

T.  Z.  Beddoes  283 

C.  Lamb  285 

G.  Darley  292 

Lord  Macaulay  293 

P.  B.  Shelley  294 

P.  B.  Shelley  295 

R.  Steele  296 

P.  B.  Shelley  302 

Sir  W.  Raleigh  303 

T.  Campion  303 

7\  L.  Beddoes  304 

T.  Nashe  304 

IV.  E.  Henley  306 

M.  Arnold  306 

R.  Herrick  308 

C.  Lamb  309 


xvi 


SPRING 
FOR    YOUTH 


SPRING 

(From  Mutabilitie,  Canto  vii.) 

So  forth  issew'd  the  Seasons  of  the  yeare. 

First  lusty  Spring,  all  dight  in  leaves  of  flowers 

That  freshly  budded  and  new  bloosmes  did  beare, 

[In  which  a  thousand  birds  had  built  their  bowres 

That  sweetly  sung  to  call  forth  Paramours] 

And  in  his  hand  a  javelin  he  did  beare, 

And  on  his  head  [as  fit  for  warlike  stoures] 

A  guilt  engraven  morion  he  did  wcare ; 

That  as  some  did  him  love,  so  others  did  him  feare. 

Ed.  Spenser. 


Song        <^y        *o        *c>        ^y 
(From  Vakntinian) 

"M"  OW  the  lusty  Spring  is  seen  ; 
Golden  yellow,  gaudy  blue, 
Daintily  invite  the  view. 
Everywhere  upon  the  green, 
Roses  blushing  as  they  blow 
And  enticing  men  to  pull, 
Lilies  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Woodbines  of  sweet  honey  full : 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
"  Ladies,  if  not  plucked,  we  die.'1 

Yet  the  lusty  Spring  hath  stayed ; 
Blushing  red  and  purest  white 
Daintily  to  love  invite 
Every  woman,  every  maid. 
Cherries  kissing  as  they  grow, 

And  inviting  men  to  taste, 
Apples  even  ripe  below, 

Winding  gently  to  the  waist : 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
"  Ladies,  if  not  plucked,  we  die." 

John  Fletcher. 


Rosalynd's  Madrigal        *o        <£* 

T    OVE  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 

Doth  suck  his  sweet ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 

Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast. 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast  ; 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest. 

"Ah,  wanton  !  will  ye?" 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With  pretty  flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  live-long  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string ; 
He  music  plays,  if  so  I  sing. 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing  ; 
Yet,  cruel !  he  my  heart  doth  sting. 

Whist,  wanton  !  still  ye  ! 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence  ! 
And  bind  you,  when  you  want  to  play ; 

For  your  offence 
I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in  ! 
Til  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin  ! 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin  ! 
Alas  !  what  hereby  shall  I  win 

If  he  gainsay  me  ? 

4 


What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod  ? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 

"  Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee  1 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be  ! 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee  ! 
O  Cupid  !  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not  but  play  thee." 

Thomas  Lodge. 


The  Shepheard's  Daffadil 

(From  England's  Helicon} 


,  as  thou  cam'st  this  way 
By  yonder  little  hill, 

Or  as  thou  through  the  fields  didst  stray, 
Saw'st  thou  my  daffadil  ? 

She's  in  a  frock  of  Lincoln-greene, 

The  colour  maydes  delight  ; 
And  never  hath  her  beauty  seene 

But  through  a  vayle  of  white. 

Than  roses  richer  to  behold 
That  dresse  up  lovers'  bowers  ; 

The  pansie  and  the  marygold 
Are  Phoebus'  paramours. 

5 


Thou  well  describ'st  the  daffadil ; 

It  is  not  full  an  hower 
Since  by  the  spring  near  yonder  hill 

I  saw  that  lovely  flower. 

Yet  with  my  flower  thou  didst  not  meete, 
Nor  news  of  her  dost  bring  ; 

Yet  is  my  daffadil  more  sweete 
Than  that  by  yonder  spring. 

I  saw  a  shephearde,  that  doth  keepe 

In  yonder  field  of  lillie, 
Was  making  (as  he  fed  his  sheepe) 

A  wreath  of  daffadillie. 

Yet,  Gorbo,  thou  delud'st  me  still, 
My  flower  thou  didst  not  see  ; 

For  know  my  pretty  daffadil 
Is  worne  of  none  but  me. 

To  show  itself  but  near  her  seate 

No  lilly  is  so  bold  ; 
Except  to  shade  her  from  the  heate, 

Or  keepe  her  from  the  colde. 

Through  yonder  vale  as  I  did  passe, 

Descending  from  the  hill, 
I  met  a  smerking  bonny  lasse  : 

They  call  her  Daffadil. 

6 


Whose  presence  as  along  she  went 

The  pretty  flowers  did  greete  ; 
As  though  their  heads  they  downe-ward  bent 

With  homage  to  her  feet. 

And  all  the  shepherds  that  were  nie, 

From  top  of  every  hill, 
Unto  the  vallies  loud  did  crie, 

"  There  goes  sweet  Daffodil ! " 

Aye,  gentle  shephearde,  now  with  joy 

Thou  all  my  flock  dost  fill ; 
Come,  goe  with  me,  thou  shepheard's  boy, 

Let  us  to  Daffodil. 

Michael  Dray  ton. 


Song          O          "£>          ^^          "Qy 

(From  the  First  Book  of  Songs  and  Airs,  1597) 

if  you  change  !  I'll  never  choose  again. 
Sweet,  if  you  shrink !  I'll  never  think  of  love. 
Fair,  if  you  fail !  I'll  judge  all  beauty  vain. 
Wise,  if  too  weak  !  mere  wits  I'll  never  prove. 
Dear  !  Sweet !  Fair  !  Wise  !  change,  shrink,  nor 

be  not  weak ; 
And,  on  my  faith  !  my  faith  shall  never  break. 


Earth  with  her  flowers  shall  sooner  heaven  adorn  ; 
Heaven  her  bright  stars  through  earth's  dim  globe 

shall  move ; 

Fire  heat  shall  lose  ;  and  frosts  of  flames  be  born  ; 
Air  made  to  shine,  as  black  as  hell  shall  prove  : 
Earth,  Heaven,  Fire,  Air,  the  world  transformed 

shall  view, 
Ere  I  prove  false  to  faith  or  strange  to  you  ! 

John  Dowland. 


Meeting  at  Night        o        *^> 
(From  Dramatic  Lyrics) 

H^HE  grey  sea  and  the  long  black  land ; 

And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach  ; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears  ; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  thro3  its  joys  and  fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each. 

R.  Browning. 

8 


On  Classical  Education        o        o 

(From  the  Round  Table] 

HTHE  study  of  the  Classics  is  less  to  be  regarded 
as  an  exercise  of  the  intellect  than  as  "a 
discipline  of  humanity."  The  peculiar  advantage 
of  this  mode  of  education  consists  not  so  much  in 
strengthening  the  understanding  as  in  softening 
and  refining  the  taste.  It  gives  men  liberal  views  ; 
it  accustoms  the  mind  to  take  an  interest  in  things 
foreign  to  itself ;  to  love  virtue  for  its  own  sake ; 
to  prefer  fame  to  life,  and  glory  to  riches ;  and  to 
fix  our  thoughts  on  the  remote  and  permanent 
instead  of  narrow  and  fleeting  objects.  It  teaches 
us  to  believe  that  there  is  really  something  great 
and  excellent  in  the  world  surviving  all  the 
shocks  of  accident  and  fluctuations  of  opinion, 
and  raises  us  above  that  low  and  servile  fear  which 
bows  only  to  present  power  and  upstart  authority. 
Rome  and  Athens  filled  a  place  in  the  history  of 
mankind  which  can  never  be  occupied  again.  They 
were  two  cities  set  on  a  hill  which  could  not  be 
hid;  all  eyes  have  seen  them,  and  their  light  shines 
like  a  mighty  sea-mark  into  the  abyss  of  time. 

"  Still  green  with  bays  each  ancient  altar  stands, 
Above  the  reach  of  sacrilegious  hands ; 
Secure  from  flames,  from  envy's  fiercer  rage, 
Destructive  war,  and  all  involving  age, 


Hail,  bards  triumphant,  born  in  happier  days, 
Immortal  heirs  of  universal  praise  ! 
Whose  honours  with  increase  of  ages  grow, 
As  streams  roll  down,  enlarging  as  they  flow  ! " 

It  is  this  feeling,  more  than  anything  else,  which 
produces  a  marked  difference  between  the  study 
of  the  ancient  and  modern  languages,  and  which, 
from  the  weight  and  importance  of  the  conse- 
quences attached  to  the  former,  stamps  every  word 
with  a  monumental  firmness.  By  conversing  with 
the  mighty  dead,  we  imbibe  sentiment  with  know- 
ledge. We  become  strongly  attached  to  those 
who  can  no  longer  either  hurt  or  serve  us,  except 
through  the  influence  which  they  exert  over  the 
mind.  We  feel  the  presence  of  that  power  which 
gives  immortality  to  human  thoughts  and  actions, 
and  catch  the  flame  of  enthusiasm  from  all  nations 
and  ages. 

It  is  hard  to  find  in  minds  otherwise  formed 
either  a  real  love  of  excellence,  or  a  belief  that  any 
excellence  exists  superior  to  their  own.  Every- 
thing is  brought  down  to  the  vulgar  level  of  their 
own  ideas  and  pursuits.  Persons  without  educa- 
tion certainly  do  not  want  either  acuteness  or 
strength  of  mind  in  what  concerns  themselves  or 
in  things  immediately  within  their  observation  ; 
but  they  have  no  power  of  abstraction,  no  general 
standard  of  taste,  or  scale  of  opinion.  They  see 
their  objects  always  near,  and  never  in  the  horizon. 
Hence  arises  that  egotism  which  has  been  re- 

10 


marked  as  the  characteristic  of  self-taught  men, 
and  which  degenerates  into  obstinate  prejudice, 
or  petulant  fickleness  of  opinion,  according  to  the 
natural  sluggishness  or  activity  of  their  minds. 
For  they  either  become  blindly  bigoted  to  the  first 
opinions  they  have  struck  out  for  themselves,  and 
inaccessible  to  conviction  ;  or  else  (the  dupes  of 
their  own  vanity  and  shrewdness)  are  everlasting 
converts  to  every  crude  suggestion  that  presents 
itself,  and  the  last  opinion  is  always  the  true  one. 
Each  successive  discovery  flashes  upon  them  with 
equal  light  and  evidence,  and  every  new  fact  over- 
turns their  whole  system.  It  is  among  this  class 
of  persons,  whose  ideas  never  extend  beyond  the 
feeling  of  the  moment,  that  we  find  partizans,  who 
are  very  honest  men,  with  a  total  want  of  principle, 
and  who  unite  the  most  hardened  effrontery  and 
intolerance  of  opinion,  to  endless  inconsistency  and 
self-contradiction. 

A  celebrated  political  writer  of  the  present  day, 
who  is  a  great  enemy  to  classical  education,  is  a 
remarkable  instance  both  of  what  can  and  what 
cannot  be  done  without  it. 

It  has  been  attempted  of  late  to  set  up  a  dis- 
tinction between  the  education  of  words  and  the 
education  of  things,  and  to  give  the  preference  in 
all  cases  to  the  latter.  But,  in  the  first  place,  the 
knowledge  of  things,  or  of  the  realities  of  life,  is 
not  easily  to  be  taught  except  by  things  themselves, 
and,  even  if  it  were,  is  not  so  absolutely  indispen- 
sable as  it  has  been  supposed.  "  The  world  is  too 
ii 


much  with  us,  early  and  late  "  ;  and  the  fine  dream 
of  our  youth  is  best  prolonged  among  the  visionary 
objects  of  antiquity.  We  owe  many  of  our  most 
amiable  delusions,  and  some  of  our  superiority,  to 
the  grossness  of  mere  physical  existence,  to  the 
strength  of  our  associations  with  words.  Language, 
if  it  throws  a  veil  over  our  ideas,  adds  a  softness 
and  refinement  to  them,  like  that  which  the  atmo- 
sphere gives  to  naked  objects.  There  can  be  no 
true  elegance  without  taste  in  style.  In  the  next 
place,  we  mean  absolutely  to  deny  the  application 
of  the  principle  of  utility  to  the  present  question. 
By  an  obvious  transposition  of  ideas,  some  persons 
have  confounded  a  knowledge  of  useful  things  with 
useful  knowledge.  Knowledge  is  only  useful  in 
itself  as  it  exercises  or  gives  pleasure  to  the  mind  ; 
the  only  knowledge  that  is  of  use  in  a  practical 
sense  is  professional  knowledge.  But  knowledge, 
considered  as  a  branch  of  general  education,  can 
be  of  use  only  to  the  mind  of  the  person  acquiring 
it.  If  the  knowledge  of  language  produces  pedants, 
the  other  kind  of  knowledge  (which  is  proposed  to 
be  substituted  for  it)  can  only  produce  quacks. 
There  is  no  question  but  that  the  knowledge  of 
astronomy,  of  chemistry,  and  of  agriculture,  is 
highly  useful  to  the  world,  and  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  be  acquired  by  persons  carrying  on  certain 
professions  ;  but  the  practical  utility  of  a  know- 
ledge of  these  subjects  ends  there.  For  example, 
it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  the  navigator  to 
know  exactly  in  what  degree  of  longitude  and 

12 


latitude  such  a  rock  lies ;  but  to  us,  sitting  here 
at  our  Round  Table,  it  is  not  of  the  smallest  con- 
sequence whatever,  whether  the  map-maker  has 
placed  it  an  inch  to  the  right  or  to  the  left ;  we  are 
in  no  danger  of  running  against  it.  So  the  art  of 
making  shoes  is  a  highly  useful  art,  and  very 
proper  to  be  known  and  practised  by  somebody, 
that  is,  by  the  shoemaker.  But  to  pretend  that 
everyone  else  should  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
the  whole  process  of  this  ingenious  handicraft,  as 
one  branch  of  useful  knowledge,  would  be  pre- 
posterous. It  is  sometimes  asked,  What  is  the 
use  of  poetry?  and  we  have  heard  the  argument 
carried  on  almost  like  a  parody  on  FalstafiPs 
reasoning  about  Honour.  "  Can  it  set  a  leg  ?  No. 
Or  an  arm  ?  No.  Or  take  away  the  grief  of  a 
wound?  No.  Poetry  hath  no  skill  in  surgery, 
then  ?  No." 

It  is  likely  that  the  most  enthusiastic  lover  of 
poetry  would  so  far  agree  to  the  truth  of  this  state- 
ment, that  if  he  had  just  broken  a  leg,  he  would 
send  for  a  surgeon  instead  of  a  volume  of  poems 
from  a  library.  But  "  they  that  are  whole  need  not 
a  physician."  The  reasoning  would  be  well  founded, 
if  we  lived  in  a  hospital,  and  not  in  the  world. 

William  Hazlitt. 


(From  the  Second  Book  of  Songs  and  Airs,  1601) 

TV/T  Y  Love  is  neither  young  nor  old, 

Nor  fiery-hot  nor  frozen-cold, 
But  fresh  and  fair  as  springing  briar 
Blooming-  the  fruit  of  love's  desire  : 
Not  snowy-white  nor  rosy-red, 
But  fair  enough  for  shepherd's  bed  : 
And  such  a  love  was  never  seen 
On  hill  or  dale  or  country-green. 

Robert  Jones. 


In  a  Shaded  Garden        ^        *o 
(From  The  Praise  of  Life,  1896) 

TPvOWN  in  a  shaded  garden 

I  laid  on  earth  my  head  : 
The  deep  trees  murmured,  darkly  fresh, 

Over  my  bed : 

I  looked  through  living  leaves  to  the  sky, 
Odours  and  songs  were  quivering  nigh  ; 
The  warm  grass  touched  my  cheek  as  I  lay 
And  care  from  me  was  far  away. 
As  a  child  to  its  mother,  to  Earth  I  drew ; 

I  felt  her  true. 

Of  Life,  sweet  Life,  enamoured, 

I  closed  my  eyes  to  feel 
The  sweetness  pierce  to  the  inmost  veins 

And  the  whole  heart  steal ; 

14 


Sacred  Life,  more  sweet  and  fair 
Than  all  her  children  of  earth  and  air, 
Fountain  dearer  than  joy  in  the  breast, 
In  the  blue  I  adored,  in  the  grass  I  caressed : 
Then  Earth,  my  mother,  leaned  to  my  ear, 
And  spoke  me  clear. 

To  thee  the  rose  her  odour, 

Her  glory  dedicates  ; 
And  thee  the  pink's  sweet-budded  fringe 

Of  snow  awaits. 

For  thee  is  the  sprinkled  fire  of  the  broom, 
For  thee  the  azalea  burns  her  bloom  ; 
O  child,  does  thy  heart  not  tell  thee  how 
Thy  joy  is  answered  from  every  bough  ? 
In  the  throat  of  the  bird,  in  the  sap  of  the  tree, 

Tis  all  for  thee  ! 

Stricken  with  joy  and  wonder, 

I  raised  my  eyes  around, 
And  saw  what  mystery  flowered  for  me 

In  that  enchanted  ground  ! 
The  roses,  the  roses,  rich  entwined, 
Heavy  with  love  to  me  inclined  ; 
Yearning  up  from  the  dusk  of  death, 
They  trembled  towards  me  with  living  breath. 

0  none  that  loved  me  is  dead,  I  knew, 

And  each  is  true. 

Now  forth  to  the  world  attended 
By  the  spirits  of  that  hour, 

1  bear  within  me  a  charm  secure 

As  the  scent  asleep  in  a  flower. 

15 


Wise  men  now,  profound  in  care, 
Pass  me  with  distrustful  air  : 
But  the  child  perceives,  and  the  careless  boy 
Now  admits  me  of  his  joy. 
And  my  love  in  a  glory  enshrines  my  bliss 
In  a  laughing  kiss. 

Laurence  Binyon. 


Song          *£>          'Qy          'Q 

(From  the  Third  Book  of  Airs} 


r^OME  !  O  come,  my  life's  delight  1 

Let  me  not  in  languor  pine  ! 
Love  loves  no  delay  ;  thy  sight, 

The  more  enjoyed,  the  more  divine  ! 
O  come,  and  take  from  me 
The  pain  of  being  deprived  of  thee  I 

Thou  all  sweetness  dost  enclose  ! 
Like  a  little  world  of  bliss  : 

Beauty  guards  thy  looks  !     The  rose 
In  them,  pure  and  eternal  is. 

Come  then  !  and  make  thy  flight 

As  swift  to  me  as  heavenly  light  ! 

Thomas  Campion. 


16 


Song1        'Qy        "C>        -^        <^ 
(From  the  Third  Book  of  Airs} 

Q  LEEP,  angry  beauty,  sleep,  and  fear  not  me  ! 

For  who  a  sleeping  lion  dares  provoke  ? 
It  shall  suffice  me,  here  to  sit  and  see, 
Those  lips  shut  up,  that  never  kindly  spoke. 
What  sight  can  more  content  a  lover's  mind 
Than  beauty  seeming  harmless,  if  not  kind  ? 

My  words  have  charmed  her,  for  secure  she  sleeps  ; 
Though  guilty  much,  of  wrong  done  to  my  love  ; 
And,  in  her  slumber,  see  !  she,  close-eyed,  weeps  ! 
Dreams  often,  more  than  waking  passions  move. 

Plead,  Sleep,  my  cause,  and  make  her  soft  like 
thee! 

That  she,  in  peace,  may  wake,  and  pity  me. 

Thomas  Campion. 

Songf         <^y         *^         "^>         <^y 

(From  Songs  and  Sonnets) 

C  WEETEST  love,  I  do  not  go, 

For  weariness  of  thee, 
Nor  in  the  hope  the  world  can  show 
A  fitter  love  for  me  : 

But  since  that  I 
Must  die  at  last,  'tis  best, 
Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest 
By  feigned  deaths  to  die. 
C  17 


Yesternight  the  sun  went  hence, 

And  yet  is  here  to-day  ; 
He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense, 

Nor  half  so  short  a  way  ; 

Then  fear  not  me, 
But  believe  that  I  shall  make 
Hastier  journeys  since  I  take 

More  wings  and  spurs  than  he. 

O  how  feeble  is  man's  power, 

That  if  good  fortune  fall, 
Cannot  add  another  hour, 

Nor  a  lost  hour  recall ; 

But  come  bad  chance, 
And  we  join  to  it  our  strength, 
And  we  teach  it  art  and  length, 

Itself  o'er  us  to  advance. 

When  thou  sigh'st,  thou  sigh'st  not  wind, 

But  sigh'st  my  soul  away  ; 
When  thou  weep'st,  unkindly  kind, 

My  life's  blood  doth  decay. 

It  cannot  be 

That  thou  lov'st  me  as  thou  say'st, 
If  in  thine  my  life  thou  waste, 

That  art  the  best  of  me. 

Let  not  thy  divining  heart 

Forethink  me  any  ill ; 
Destiny  may  take  thy  part, 

And  may  thy  fears  fulfil. 
18 


But  think  that  we 
Are  but  turn'd  aside  to  sleep, 
They  who  one  another  keep 
Alive,  ne'er  parted  be. 

John  Donne. 


(From  the  Passionate  Pilgrim) 

Tj*  AIR  is  my  love,  but  not  so  fair  as  fickle  ; 

Mild  as  a  dove,  but  neither  true  nor  trusty  ; 

Brighter  than  glass,  and  yet,  as  glass  is,  brittle  ; 

Softer  than  wax,  and  yet,  as  iron,  rusty  : 
A  lily  pale,  with  damask  dye  to  grace  her, 
None  fairer,  nor  none  falser  to  deface  her. 

Her  lips  to  mine  how  often  hath  she  join'd, 
Between  each  kiss  her  oaths  of  true  love  swearing  1 
How  many  tales  to  please  me  hath  she  coin'd, 
Dreading  my  love,  the  loss  thereof  still  fearing  ! 
Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  her  pure  pretestings, 
Her  faiths,  her  oaths,  her  tears,  and  all  were 
jestings. 

She  burn'd  with  love,  as  straw  with  fire  flameth, 
She  burn'd  out  love,  as  soon  as  straw  out-burneth  ; 
She  fram'd  the  love,  and  yet  she  foil'd  the  framing, 
She  bade  love  last,  and  yet  she  fell  a-turning. 

Was  this  a  lover,  or  a  lecher  whether  ? 

Bad  in  the  best,  though  excellent  in  neither. 

19 


Sweet  rose,  fair  flower,  untimely  pluck'd,  soon  vaded, 

Pluck'd  in  the  bud,  and  vaded  in  the  spring  ! 

Bright  orient  pearl,  alack  !  too  timely  shaded  ! 

Fair  creature,  kill'd  too  soon  by  death's  sharp  sting ! 
Like  a  green  plum  that  hangs  upon  a  tree, 
And  falls,  through  wind,  before  the  fall  should  be. 

I  weep  for  thee,  and  yet  no  cause  I  have  ; 

For  why  ?  thou  left'st  me  nothing  in  thy  will. 

And  yet  thou  left'st  me  more  than  I  did  crave  ; 

For  why  ?     I  craved  nothing  of  thee  still : 
O  yes,  dear  friend,  I  pardon  crave  of  thee 
The  discontent  thou  did'st  bequeath  to  me. 

W.  Shakspere. 

Sonnets        <^x        -^        ^>        *£y 
(From  Idea) 

T    OVE  banish'd  heaven,  in  earth  was  held  in 
scorn  ; 

Wand'ring  abroad  in  need  and  beggary  : 
And  wanting  friends,  though  of  a  goddess  born, 

Yet  crav'd  the  alms  of  such  as  passed  by. 
I,  like  a  man  devout  and  charitable, 

Clothed  the  naked,  lodged  this  wand'ring  guest  j 
With  sighs  and  tears  still  furnishing  his  table, 

With  what  might  make  the  miserable  blest. 
But  this  ungrateful,  for  my  good  desert, 

Intic'd  my  thoughts,  against  me  to  conspire  ; 
Who  gave  consent  to  steal  away  my  heart, 

And  set  my  breast,  his  lodging,  on  a  fire. 
20 


Well,  well,  my  friends  !  when  beggars  grow  thus 

bold; 
No  marvel  then,  though  Charity  grow  cold. 

Dear  !  why  should  you  command  me  to  my  rest, 

When  now  the  night  doth  summon  all  to  sleep  ? 
Methinks  this  time  becometh  lovers  best ! 

Night  was  ordain'd,  together  friends  to  keep. 
How  happy  are  all  other  living  things, 

Which,  though  the  day  disjoin  by  several  flight, 
The  quiet  ev'ning  yet  together  brings, 

And  each  returns  unto  his  love  at  night ! 
O  thou  that  art  so  courteous  else  to  all, 

Why  should'st  thou,  Night !  abuse  me  only  thus, 
That  ev'ry  creature  to  his  kind  dost  call, 

And  yet  'tis  thou  dost  only  sever  us  ? 
Well  could  I  wish  it  would  be  ever  day, 
If,  when  night  comes,  you  bid  me  go  away  1 

Clear  Ankor,  on  whose  silver-sanded  shore, 

My  soul-shrin'd  saint,  my  fair  IDEA  lies, 
O  blessed  brook,  whose  milk-white  swans  adore 

Thy  chrystal  stream  refined  by  her  eyes, 
Where    sweet    myrrhe- breathing    zephir    in    the 
spring 

Gently  distils  his  nectar-dropping  showers, 
Where  nightingales  in  Arden  sit  and  sing, 

Amongst  the  dainty  dew-impearled  flowers  ; 
Say  thus,  fair  brook,  when  thou  shalt  see  thy  queen, 

"  Lo,  here  thy  shepherd  spent  his  wand'ring  years, 
21 


And  in  these  shades,  dear  nymph,  he  oft  had  been 

And  here  to  thee  he  sacrificed  his  tears  : 
Fair  Arden,  thou  my  Tempe  art  alone, 
And  thou,  sweet  Ankor,  art  my  Helicon." 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part 

Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me, 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free. 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows, 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain  ; 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 

When  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes  : 
Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover. 

Michael  Dray  ton. 

Essays   XXX   and   CCVII        ^>        -^ 

(From  The  Tatkr) 

HP  HE  vigilance,  the  anxiety,  the  tenderness  which 
I  have  for  the  good  people  of  England,  I  am 
persuaded,  will  in  time  be  much  commended  :  but 
I  doubt  whether  they  will  ever  be  rewarded.  How- 
ever, I  must  go  on  cheerfully  in  my  work  of 
reformation  :  that  being  my  great  design,  I  am 
studious  to  prevent  my  labours  increasing  upon 

22 


me  ;  therefore  am  particularly  observant  of  the 
temper  and  inclinations  of  childhood  and  youth, 
that  we  may  not  give  vice  and  folly  supplies  from 
the  growing  generation.  It  is  hardly  to  be  imagined 
how  useful  this  study  is,  and  what  great  evils  or 
benefits  arise  from  putting  us  in  our  tender  years 
to  what  we  are  fit  and  unfit :  therefore  on  Tuesday 
last  (with  a  design  to  sound  their  inclinations)  I 
took  three  lads,  who  are  under  my  guardianship,  a 
rambling  in  a  hackney  coach,  to  shew  them  the 
town  ;  as  the  Lions,  the  Tombs,  Bedlam,  and  the 
other  places  which  are  entertainments  to  raw  minds, 
because  they  strike  forcibly  on  the  fancy.  The 
boys  are  brothers,  one  of  sixteen,  the  other  of 
fourteen,  the  other  of  twelve.  The  first  was  his 
father's  darling,  the  second  his  mother's,  and  the 
third  is  mine,  who  am  their  uncle.  Mr.  William  is 
a  lad  of  true  genius,  but  being  at  the  upper  end  of 
a  great  school,  and  having  all  the  boys  below  him, 
his  arrogance  is  insupportable.  If  I  begin  to  shew 
a  little  of  my  Latin,  he  immediately  interrupts — 
"  Uncle,  under  favour,  that  which  you  say  is  not 
understood  in  that  manner." — "  Brother,"  says  my 
boy  Jack,  "you  do  not  shew  your  manners  much 
in  contradicting  my  Uncle  Isaac." — "  You  queer 
cur,"  says  Mr.  William,  "  do  you  think  my  uncle 
takes  any  notice  of  such  a  dull  rogue  as  you  are  ? " 
Mr.  William  goes  on— "  He  is  the  most  stupid  of 
all  my  mother's  children  :  he  knows  nothing  of  his 
book ;  when  he  should  mind  that  he  is  hiding  or 
hoarding  his  taws  and  marbles,  or  laying  up  far- 

23 


things.  His  way  of  thinking  is,  '  Foiir-and-twenty 
farthings  make  sixpence,  and  two  sixpences  a  shil- 
ling, two  shillings  and  sixpence  half  a  crown,  and 
two  half-crowns  five  shillings.'  So  within  these 
two  months,  the  close  hunks  has  scraped  up  twenty 
shillings,  and  we  will  make  him  spend  it  all  before 
he  comes  home.5?  Jack  immediately  claps  his  hands 
into  both  pockets  and  turns  as  pale  as  ashes. 
There  is  nothing  touches  a  parent  (and  such  I  am 
to  Jack)  so  nearly  as  a  provident  conduct.  This 
lad  has  in  him  the  true  temper  for  a  good  husband, 
a  kind  father,  and  an  honest  executor.  All  the 
great  people  you  see  make  considerable  figures  on 
the  Exchange,  in  court,  and  sometimes  in  senates, 
are  such  as  in  reality  have  no  greater  faculty  than 
what  may  be  called  human  instinct,  which  is  a 
natural  tendency  to  their  own  preservation  and 
that  of  their  friends,  without  being  capable  of  strik- 
ing out  of  the  road  for  adventures.  There  is  Sir 
William  Scrip  who  was  of  this  sort  of  capacity  from 
his  childhood ;  he  has  bought  up  the  country 
round  him,  and  makes  a  bargain  better  than  Sir 
Harry  Wildfire,  with  all  his  wit  and  humour.  Sir 
Harry  never  wants  money  but  he  comes  to  Scrip, 
laughs  at  him  half  an  hour,  and  then  gives  bond 
for  the  other  thousand.  The  close  men  are  in- 
capable of  placing  merit  anywhere  but  in  their 
pence,  and  therefore  gain  it ;  while  others,  who 
have  larger  capacities,  are  diverted  from  the  pur- 
suit of  enjoyments,  which  can  be  supported  only 
by  that  cash  which  they  despise,  and  therefore  are 

24 


in  the  end  slaves  to  their  inferiors  both  in  fortune 
and  understanding.  I  once  heard  a  man  of  excel- 
lent sense  observe,  that  more  affairs  in  the  world 
failed  by  being  in  the  hands  of  men  of  too  large 
capacities  for  their  business  than  by  being  in  the 
conduct  of  such  as  wanted  abilities  to  execute 
them.  Jack  therefore,  being  of  a  plodding  make, 
shall  be  a  citizen :  and  I  design  him  to  be  the 
refuge  of  the  family  in  their  distress,  as  well  as 
their  jest  in  prosperity.  His  brother  Will  shall  go 
to  Oxford  with  all  speed  ;  where,  if  he  does  not 
arrive  at  being  a  man  of  sense,  he  will  soon  be 
informed  wherein  he  is  a  coxcomb.  There  is  in 
that  place  such  a  true  spirit  of  raillery  and  humour, 
that  if  they  cannot  make  you  a  wise  man  they 
will  certainly  let  you  know  you  are  a  fool ; 
which  is  all  my  cousin  wants,  to  cease  to  be  so. 
Thus  having  taken  these  two  out  of  the  way,  I 
have  leisure  to  look  at  my  third  lad.  I  observe  in 
the  young  rogue  a  natural  subtlety  of  mind  which 
discovers  itself  rather  in  forbearing  to  declare  his 
thoughts  on  any  occasion  than  in  any  visible  way 
of  exerting  himself  in  discourse.  For  which  reason 
I  will  place  him  where,  if  he  commits  no  faults,  he 
may  go  farther  than  those  in  other  stations,  though 
they  excel  in  virtues.  The  boy  is  well  fashioned, 
and  will  easily  fall  into  a  graceful  manner ;  where- 
fore I  have  a  design  to  make  him  a  page  to  a  great 
lady  of  my  acquaintance  ;  by  which  means  he  will 
be  well  skilled  in  the  common  modes  of  life,  and 
make  a  greater  progress  in  the  world  by  that 

25 


knowledge  than  with  the  greatest  qualities  without 
it.  A  good  mien  in  a  court  will  carry  a  man 
greater  lengths  than  a  good  understanding  in  any 
other  place.  We  see  a  world  of  pains  taken,  and 
the  best  years  of  life  spent  in  collecting  a  set  of 
thoughts  in  a  college  for  the  conduct  of  life ;  and, 
after  all,  the  man  so  qualified  shall  hesitate  in  his 
speech  to  a  good  suit  of  cloathes,  and  want  com- 
mon sense  before  an  agreeable  woman.  Hence  it 
is  that  wisdom,  valour,  justice,  and  learning,  can- 
not keep  a  man  in  countenance  that  is  possessed 
with  these  excellencies,  if  he  wants  that  inferior  art 
of  life  and  behaviour  called  good-breeding.  A  man 
endowed  with  great  perfections,  without  this,  is 
like  one  who  has  his  pockets  full  of  gold,  but 
always  wants  change  for  his  ordinary  occasions. 

Will  Courtly  is  a  living  instance  of  this  truth  ; 
and  has  had  the  same  education  which  I  am  giving 
my  nephew.  He  never  spoke  a  thing  but  what 
was  said  before,  and  yet  can  converse  with  the 
wittiest  men  without  being  ridiculous.  Amongst 
the  learned  he  does  not  appear  ignorant  :  nor  with 
the  wise  indiscreet.  Living  in  conversation  from 
his  infancy,  makes  him  nowhere  at  a  loss :  and 
a  long  familiarity  with  the  persons  of  men  is,  in 
a  manner,  of  the  same  service  to  him,  as  if  he 
knew  their  arts.  As  ceremony  is  the  invention  of 
wise  men  to  keep  fools  at  a  distance,  so  good 
breeding  is  an  expedient  to  make  fools  and  wise 
men  equals. 

****** 

26 


Having  yesterday  morning  received  a  paper  ol. 
Latin  verses,  written  with  very  much  elegance  in 
honour  of  these  my  papers,  and  being  informed  at 
the  same  time,  that  they  were  composed  by  a 
youth  under  age,  I  read  them  with  much  delight, 
as  an  instance  of  his  improvement.  There  is  not 
a  greater  pleasure  to  old  age  than  seeing  young 
people  entertain  themselves  in  such  a  manner  as 
that  we  can  partake  of  their  enjoyments.  On 
such  occasions  we  flatter  ourselves  that  we  are  not 
quite  laid  aside  in  the  world,  but  that  we  are  either 
used  with  gratitude  for  what  we  were,  or  honoured 
for  what  we  are.  A  well-inclined  young  man  and 
whose  good-breeding  is  founded  on  the  principles 
of  nature  and  virtue,  must  needs  take  delight  in 
being  agreeable  to  his  elders,  as  we  are  truly 
delighted  when  we  are  not  the  jest  of  them. 
When  I  say  this,  I  must  confess  I  cannot  but 
think  it  a  very  lamentable  thing,  that  there  should 
be  a  necessity  for  making  that  a  rule  of  life  which 
should  be,  methinks,  a  mere  instinct  of  nature. 
If  reflection  upon  a  man  in  poverty,  whom  we  once 
knew  in  riches,  is  an  argument  of  commiseration 
with  generous  minds  :  sure  old  age,  which  is  a 
decay  from  that  vigour  which  the  young  possess, 
and  must  certainly,  if  not  prevented  against  their 
will,  arrive  at,  should  be  more  forcibly  the  object 
of  that  reverence  which  honest  spirits  are  inclined 
to,  from  a  sense  of  being  themselves  liable  to  what 
they  observe  has  already  overtaken  others. 

My   three   nephews,  whom   in   June   last   was 
27 


twelvemonth,  I  disposed  of  according  to  their 
several  capacities  and  inclinations ;  the  first  to 
the  university,  the  second  to  a  merchant,  and  the 
third  to  a  woman  of  quality  as  her  page,  by  my 
invitation  dined  with  me  to-day.  It  is  my  custom 
often,  when  I  have  a  mind  to  give  myself  a  more 
than  ordinary  cheerfulness,  to  invite  a  certain 
young  gentlewoman  of  our  neighbourhood  to  make 
one  of  the  company.  She  did  me  that  favour  this 
day.  The  presence  of  a  beautiful  woman  of  honour 
to  minds  which  are  not  trivially  disposed,  displays 
an  alacrity  which  is  not  to  be  communicated  by 
any  other  object.  It  was  not  unpleasant  to  me,  to 
look  into  her  thoughts  of  the  company  she  was  in. 
She  smiled  at  the  party  of  pleasure  I  had  thought 
of  for  her,  which  was  composed  of  an  old  man 
and  three  boys.  My  scholar,  my  citizen,  and 
myself  were  very  soon  neglected ;  and  the  young 
courtier,  by  the  bow  he  made  to  her  at  her 
entrance,  engaged  her  observation  without  a  rival. 
I  observed  the  Oxonian  not  a  little  discomposed  at 
this  preference,  while  the  trader  kept  his  eye  on 
his  uncle.  My  nephew  Will  had  a  thousand  secret 
resolutions  to  break  in  upon  the  discourse  of  his 
younger  brother,  who  gave  my  fair  companion 
a  full  account  of  the  fashion,  and  what  was  reckoned 
most  becoming  to  their  complexion,  and  what  sort 
of  habit  appeared  best  upon  the  other  shape.  He 
proceeded  to  acquaint  her,  who  of  quality  was  well 
or  sick  within  the  bills  of  mortality,  and  named  very 
familiarly  all  his  lady's  acquaintance,  not  forget- 
28 


ting  her  very  words  when  he  spoke  of  their  char- 
acters. Besides  all  this  he  had  a  road  of  flattery  ; 
and  upon  her  enquiring  what  sort  of  woman  Lady 
Lovely  was  in  her  person,  "  Really,  Madam,"  says 
the  Jackanapes,  "  she  is  exactly  of  your  height  and 
shape  ;  but  as  you  are  fair,  she  is  a  brown  woman." 
There  was  no  enduring  that  this  fop  should  out- 
shine us  all  at  this  unmerciful  rate ;  therefore  I 
thought  fit  to  talk  to  my  young  scholar  concerning 
his  studies  :  and,  because  I  could  throw  his  learn- 
ing into  present  service,  I  desired  him  to  repeat  to 
me  the  translation  he  had  made  of  some  tender 
verses  of  Theocritus.  He  did  so  with  an  air  of 
elegance  peculiar  to  the  college  to  which  I  sent 
him.  I  made  some  exceptions  to  the  turn  of  the 
phrases,  which  he  defended  with  much  modesty, 
as  believing  in  that  place  the  matter  was  rather  to 
consult  the  softness  of  a  swain's  passion,  than  the 
strength  of  his  expressions.  It  soon  appeared 
that  Will  had  outstripped  his  brother  in  the  opinion 
of  the  young  lady.  A  little  poetry  to  one  who  is 
bred  a  scholar,  has  the  same  effect  that  a  good 
carriage  of  his  person  has  on  one  who  is  to  live  in 
courts.  The  favour  of  women  is  so  natural  a 
passion,  that  I  envied  both  the  boys  their  success 
in  the  approbation  of  my  guest ;  and  I  thought  the 
only  person  invulnerable  was  my  young  trader. 
During  the  whole  meal  1  could  observe  in  the 
children  a  mutual  contempt  and  scorn  of  each 
other,  arising  from  their  different  way  of  life  and 
education,  and  took  that  occasion  to  advertise 

29 


them  of  such  growing  distastes  :  which  might  mis- 
lead them  in  their  future  life  and  disappoint  their 
friends,  as  well  as  themselves,  of  the  advantages 
which  might  be  expected  from  the  diversity  of 
their  professions  and  interests. 

The  prejudices  which  are  growing  up  between 
these  brothers  from  the  different  ways  of  education, 
are  what  create  the  most  fatal  misunderstandings 
in  life.  But  all  distinctions  of  disparagement, 
merely  from  our  circumstances,  are  such  as  will 
not  bear  the  examination  of  reason.  The  courtier, 
the  trader,  and  the  scholar  should  all  have  an  equal 
pretention  to  the  denomination  of  a  gentleman. 
The  tradesman  who  deals  with  me  in  a  commodity, 
which  I  do  not  understand,  with  uprightness,  has 
much  more  right  to  that  character  than  the  cour- 
tier that  gives  me  false  hope,  or  the  scholar  who 
laughs  at  my  ignorance.  ^  Steele. 

Love  in  Idleness        ^>        "O 
(From  Poems >  1851) 
"  O  HALL  I  be  your  first  love,  lady,  shall  I  be 

your  first  ? 
Oh  then  I'll  fall  before  you,  down  on  my  velvet 

knee, 
And  deeply  bend  my  rosy  head  and  press  it  upon 

thee, 

And  swear  that  there  is  nothing  more  for  which 
my  heart  doth  thirst, 

But  a  downy  kiss,  and  pink 
Between  your  lips'  soft  chink." 

30 


"  Yes,  you  shall  be  my  first  love,  boy,  and  you  shall 

be  my  first, 
And  I  will  raise  you  up  again  unto  my  bosom's 

fold; 
And,  when  you  kisses  many  one  on  lip  and  cheek 

have  told, 

I'll  let  you  loose  upon  the  grass,  to  leave  me  if  you 
durst, 

And  so  we'll  toy  away 
The  night  besides  the  day." 

"  But  let  me  be  your  second  love,  let  me  be  your 

second, 
For  then  I'll  tap  so  gently,   dear,   upon  your 

window  pane, 
And  creep  between  the  curtains  in,  where  never 

man  has  lain, 

And  never  leave  thy  gentle  side  till  the  morning 
star  hath  beckoned, 

Within  the  silken  lace 

Of  thy  young  arms'  embrace." 

"  Well,  thou  shalt  be  my  second  love,  yes,  gentle 

boy,  my  second, 
And  I  will  wait  at  eve  for  thee  within  my  lonely 

bower, 
And  yield  unto  thy  kisses,  like  a  bud  to  April's 

shower, 

From  moon  set  till  the  tower-clock  the  hour  of 
dawn  hath  reckoned, 

And  lock  thee  in  my  arms 
All  silent  up  in  charms." 


"No,  I  will  be  thy  third  love,  lady,  ay  I  will  be 

the  third, 
And  break  upon  thee  bathing,  in  woody  place 

alone, 
And  catch  thee  to  my  saddle,  and  ride  o'er 

stream  and  stone, 

And  press  thee  well,  and  kiss  thee  well,  and  never 
speak  a  word, 

Till  thou  hast  yielded  up 
The  margin  of  love's  cup." 

"Then  thou  shalt  not  be  my  first  love,  boy,  nor 

my  second,  nor  my  third  ; 
If  thou'rt  the  first,  I'll  laugh  at  thee,  and  pierce 

thy  flesh  with  thorns  ; 

If  the  second,  from  my  chamber  pelt  with  jeer- 
ing laugh  and  scorns, 

And  if  thou  darest  be  the  third,  I'll  draw  my  dirk 
unheard 

And  cut  thy  heart  in  two, — 
And  then  die,  weeping  you.* 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 


A  Lyric  to  Mirth        ^>        ^x 

(From  He  s per  ides) 

ILE  the  milder  fates  consent, 
Let's  enjoy  our  merriment : 

Drink,  and  dance,  and  pipe  and  play ; 

Kiss  our  dollies  night  and  day  ; 

32 


Crowned  with  clusters  of  the  vine, 
Let  us  sit  and  quaff  our  wine. 
Call  on  Bacchus,  chant  his  praise, 
Shake  the  thyrse  and  bite  the  bays : 
Rouse  Anacreon  from  the  dead 
And  return  him  drunk  to  bed  : 
Sing  o'er  Horace,  for  ere  long 
Death  will  come  and  mar  the  song. 

.#.  Herrick. 

Song  -"^y  *O  *O-  O 

"M"  OW  what  is  love,  I  pray  thee  tell  ? 

— It  is  that  fountain  and  that  well 
Where  pleasure  and  repentance  dwell. 
It  is  perhaps  the  sauncing  bell 
That  tolls  all  into  heaven  or  hell. 
And  this  is  love  as  I  hear  tell. 

Yet  what  is  love,  I  prithee  say  ? 
— It  is  a  work  on  holiday, 
It  is  December  matched  with  May, 
When  lusty  bloods,  in  fresh  array, 
Hear  ten  months  after  of  the  play. 
And  this  is  love  as  I  hear  say. 

Yet  what  is  love,  good  Shepherd  sain  ? 
— It  is  a  sunshine  mixed  with  rain, 
It  is  a  toothache  or  like  pain, 
It  is  a  game  where  none  hath  gain. 
The  lass  saith  No,  yet  would  full  fain. 
And  this  is  love  as  I  hear  sain. 

D  33 


Yet,  Shepherd,  what  is  love  I  pray? 

— It  is  a  yes,  it  is  a  nay, 

A  pretty  kind  of  sporting  fay, 

It  is  a  thing  will  soon  away  ; 

Then,  nymphs,  take  vantage  while  ye  may. 

And  this  is  love  as  I  hear  say. 

Yet  what  is  love,  good  Shepherd,  show  ? 
— A  thing  that  creeps,  it  cannot  go, 
A  prize  that  passeth  to  and  fro, 
A  thing  for  one,  a  thing  for  moe, 
And  he  that  proves  shall  find  it  soe. 
And,  Shepherd,  this  is  love  I  trow. 

Sir  W.  Raleigh  (f\ 

(From  Campion  and  RossetcSs  Book  of  Airs ,  1601) 

\\  7HEN  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  under 

ground, 

And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 
The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round, 
White  lope,  blith  Helen,  and  the  rest, 
To  hear  the  stones  of  thy  finished  love 
From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can 
move. 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights, 
Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make, 
Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  knights, 
And  all  these  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake  ? 
When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee, 
Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me. 

Thomas  Campion. 
34 


No.  Ill          -Qy          -s^x          <^>          <^> 

(From  Hawthorn  and  Lavender] 

HP  HE  night  dislimns,  and  breaks 

Like  snows  slow  thawn  ; 
An  evil  wind  awakes 

On  lea  and  lawn  ; 
The  low  East  quakes  ;  and  hark  ! 
Out  of  the  kindless  dark, 
A  fierce  protesting  lark, 

High  in  the  horror  of  dawn  1 

A  shivering  streak  of  light, 

A  scurry  of  rain  ; 
Bleak  day  from  bleaker  night 

Creeps  pinched  and  fain  ; 
The  old  gloom  thins  and  dies, 
And  in  the  wretched  skies 
A  new  gloom,  sick  to  rise, 

Sprawls  like  a  thing  in  pain. 

And  yet  what  matter — say  1 — 

The  shuddering  trees, 
The  Easter  stricken  day, 

The  sodden  leas  ? 
The  good  bird,  wing  and  wing 
With  Time,  finds  heart  to  sing, 
As  he  were  hastening 

The  swallow  o'er  the  seas. 

W.  E.  Henley. 

35 


In  Three  Days        ^y        -^        -Qy 

(From  Dramatic  Lyrics) 

Q  O,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn  ! 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from  thine, 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine, — 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine  ! 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days  ! 
But  nights,  at  least  the  nights  are  short. 
As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is, 
A  hand's  breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss, 
So  life's  night  gave  my  lady  birth 
And  my  eyes  hold  her  !     What  is  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth. 

O  loaded  curls,  release  your  store 
Of  warmth  and  scent,  as  once  before 
The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 
Outbreaking  into  fiery  sparks, 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 
After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside, 
Thro'  lights  and  darks  how  manifold — 
The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled  ! 
As  early  art  embrowns  the  gold. 

WThat  great  fear,  should  one  say,  "  Three  days 
That  change  the  world  might  change  as  well 
Your  fortune  ;  and  if  joy  delays, 
Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell  1 " 

36 


What  small  fear,  if  another  says, 

"  Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 

May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways  ; 

But  years  must  teem  with  change  untried, 

With  chance  not  easily  defied, 

With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 

No  fear  ! — or  if  a  fear  be  born 

This  minute,  it  dies  out  in  scorn. 

Fear  1  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

And  one  night ;  now  the  nights  are  short, 

Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 

R.  Browning. 

Youth's  Agitations        ^>        ^> 
(From  Early  Poems) 

\17HEN   I  shall  be  divorced,  some  ten  years 
VV      hence, 

From  this  poor  present  self  which  I  am  now  ; 
When  youth  has  done  its  tedious  vain  expense 
Of  passions  that  for  ever  ebb  and  flow  ; 
Shall  I  not  joy  youth's  heats  are  left  behind, 
And  breathe  more  happy  in  an  even  clime  ? 
Ah  no,  for  then  I  shall  begin  to  find 
A  thousand  virtues  in  this  hated  time  ! 
Then  shall  I  wish  its  agitations  back, 
And  all  its  thwarting  currents  of  desire  ; 
Then  shall  I  praise  the  heat  which  then  I  lack, 
And  call  this  hurrying  fever  generous  fire  ; 
And  sigh  that  only  one  thing  has  been  lent 
To  youth  and  age  in  common — discontent 

M.  Arnold. 
37 


Song        *£>        ^>        'Qy        ^> 

A  SK  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
7^    When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose  ; 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  doth  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  'light, 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

Thomas  Carew. 


His  Discourse  with  Cupid        <^y 
(From  Underwoods] 

TVTOBLEST  Charis,  you  that  are 

Both  my  fortune  and  my  star  ! 
And  do  govern  more  my  blood, 
Than  the  various  moon  the  flood  ! 
Hear,  what  late  discourse  of  you, 
Love  and  I  have  had  ;  and  true. 
'Mongst  my  Muses  finding  me, 
Where  he  chanc'd  your  name  to  see 
Set,  and  to  this  softer  strain  : 
Sure  said  he  if  I  have  brain, 
This,  here  sung,  can  be  no  other 
By  description  but  my  mother  ! 
So  hath  Homer  prais'd  her  hair  ; 
So  Anacreon  drawn  the  air 
Of  her  face,  and  made  to  rise 
Just  about  her  sparkling  eyes, 
Both  her  brows,  bent  like  my  bow  ; 
By  her  looks  I  do  her  know, 
Which  you  call  my  shafts.     And  see  ! 
Such  my  mother's  blushes  be, 
As  the  bath  your  verse  discloses 
In  her  cheeks,  of  milk  and  roses  ; 
Such  as  oft  I  wanton  in  : 
And  above  her  even  chin, 
Have  you  placed  the  bank  of  kisses, 
Where  you  say  men  gather  blisses, 
Ripened  with  a  breath  more  sweet 
Than  when  flowers  and  west  winds  meet  ? 

39 


Nay,  her  white  and  polished  neck, 
With  the  lace  that  doth  it  deck, 
Is  my  mother's  !     Hearts  of  slain 
Lovers  made  into  a  chain  ! 
And  between  each  rising  breast, 
Lies  the  valley  called  my  nest, 
Where  I  sit  and  proyne  my  wings 
After  flight ;  and  put  new  strings 
To  my  shafts  !     Her  very  name, 
With  my  mother's  is  the  same. 
I  confess  all,  I  replied, 
And  the  glass  hangs  by  her  side, 
And  the  girdle  'bout  her  waist, 
All  is  Venus,  save  unchaste. 
But  alas,  thou  seest  the  least 
Of  her  good,  who  is  the  best 
Of  her  sex  ;  but  could'st  thou,  Love, 
Call  to  mind  the  forms  that  strove 
For  the  apple,  and  those  three 
Make  in  one,  that  same  were  she. 
For  this  beauty  yet  doth  hide 
Something  more  than  thou  hast  spied. 


Ben  Jonson. 


Song        o        <£y        "^        '^ 
(From  Pippa  Passes) 

A    KING  lived  long  ago, 
•^     In  the  morning  of  the  world, 
When  earth  was  nigher  heaven  than  now  : 
And  the  king's  locks  curled, 
Disporting  o'er  a  forehead  full 
As  the  milk-white  space  'twixt  horn  and  horn 
Of  some  sacrificial  bull — 
Only  calm  as  a  babe  new  born  : 
For  he  was  got  to  a  sleepy  mood, 
So  safe  from  all  decrepitude. 
Age  with  its  bane,  so  sure  gone  by, 
(The  gods  so  loved  him  while  he  dreamed) 
That,  having  lived  thus  long,  there  seemed 
No  need  the  king  should  ever  die. 

Among  the  rocks  his  city  was  : 
Before  his  palace  in  the  sun, 
He  sat  to  see  his  people  pass, 
And  judge  them  every  one, 
From  its  threshold  of  smooth  stone. 
They  haled  him  many  a  valley- thief 
Caught  in  the  sheep-pens,  robber  chief 
Swarthy  and  shameless,  beggar-cheat, 
Spy-prowler,  or  rough  pirate  found 
On  the  sea-sand  left  aground  ; 
And  sometimes  clung  about  his  feet. 
With  bleeding  lip  and  burning  cheek, 
A  woman,  bitterest  wrong  to  speak 

41 


Of  one  with  sullen  thick-set  brows  : 

And  sometimes  from  the  prison  house 

The  angry  priests  a  pale  wretch  brought, 

Who  through  some  chink  had  pushed  and  pressed 

On  knees  and  elbows,  belly  and  breast, 

Worm-like  into  the  temple, — caught 

He  was  by  the  very  god, 

Who  ever  in  the  darkness  strode 

Backward  and  forward,  keeping  watch 

O'er  his  brazen  bowls,  such  rogues  to  catch  1 

These,  all  and  every  one, 

The  king  judged,  sitting  in  the  sun. 

His  councillors,  on  left  and  right, 
Looked  anxious  up, — but  no  surprise 
Disturbed  the  king's  old  smiling  eyes 
Where  the  very  blue  had  turned  to  white. 
'Tis  said,  a  Python  scared  one  day 
The  breathless  city,  till  he  came 
With  forky  tongue  and  eyes  on  flame, 
Where  the  old  king  sat  to  judge  alway  ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  sweepy  hair 
Girt  with  a  crown  of  berries  rare 
Which  the  god  will  hardly  give  to  wear 
To  the  maiden  who  singeth,  dancing  bare 
In  the  altar-smoke  by  the  pine-torch  lights 
At  his  wondrous  forest  rites, — 
Seeing  this  he  did  not  dare 
Approach  that  threshold  in  the  sun, 
Assault  the  old  king  smiling  there, 
Such  grace  had  kings  when  the  world  begun. 

R.  Browning. 
42 


The  Shepherd  Boy        *o        *^y 
(From  Diary,  July  I4th,  1667) 

AIT  HEWER  rode  with  us  to  Epsum,  and  I 
left  him  and  the  women,  and  myself  walked 
to  the  church,  where  few  people,  contrary  to  what 
I  expected,  and  none  I  knew,  but  all  the  Houblons, 
brothers,  and  them  after  sermon  I  did  salute,  and 
walk  with  towards  my  inne,  which  was  in  their 
way  to  their  lodgings.  They  come  last  night  to 
see  their  elder  brother  who  stays  here  at  the 
waters,  and  away  to-morrow.  James  did  tell  me 
that  I  was  the  only  happy  man  of  the  Navy,  of 
whom,  he  says,  during  all  this  freedom  the  people 
have  taken  of  speaking  treason,  he  hath  not  heard 
one  bad  word  of  me,  which  is  a  great  joy  to  me  ; 
for  I  hear  the  same  of  others,  but  do  know  that  I 
have  deserved  as  well  as  most.  We  parted  to 
meet  anon,  and  I  to  my  women  into  a  better  room, 
which  the  people  of  the  house  borrowed  for  us, 
and  there  to  dinner,  a  good  dinner  and  were  merry, 
and  Pendleton  come  to  us,  who  happened  to  be  in 
the  house,  and  thefe  talked  and  were  merry.  After 
dinner,  he  gone,  we  all  lay  down  after  dinner  (the 
day  being  wonderfully  hot)  to  sleep,  and  each  of  us 
took  a  good  nap,  and  then  rose  ;  and  Tom  Wilson 
come  to  see  me,  and  sat  and  talked  an  hour ;  and 
I  perceive  he  hath  been  much  acquainted  with 
Dr.  Fuller  (Tom)  and  Dr.  Pierson,  and  several  of 
the  great  cavalier  parsons  during  the  late  troubles  ; 
and  I  was  glad  to  hear  him  talk  of  them,  which  he 

43 


did  very  ingeniously,  and  very  much  of  Dr.  Fuller's 
art  of  memory,  which  he  did  tell  me  several  in- 
stances of.  By  and  by  he  parted,  and  we  took 
coach  and  to  take  the  ayre,  there  being  a  fine 
breeze  abroad ;  and  I  went  and  carried  them  to 
the  well,  and  there  filled  some  bottles  of  water 
to  carry  home  with  me  ;  and  there  talked  with  the 
two  women  that  farm  the  well,  at  £12  per  annum, 
of  the  lord  of  the  manor,  Mr.  Evelyn  (who  with 
his  lady,  and  also  my  Lord  George  Barkeley's 
lady,  and  their  fine  daughter,  that  the  King  of 
France  liked  so  well,  and  did  dance  so  rich  in 
Jewells  before  the  king  at  the  Ball  I  was  at,  at  one 
Court,  last  winter,  and  also  their  son,  a  knight  of 
the  Bath,  were  at  Church  this  morning).  Here 
W.  Hewer's  horse  broke  loose,  and  we  had  the 
sport  to  see  him  taken  again.  Then  I  carried 
them  to  see  my  cozen  Pepys's  house,  and  'light,  and 
walked  round  about  it,  and  they  like  it,  as  indeed 
it  deserves,  very  well,  and  is  a  pretty  place  :  and 
then  I  walked  them  to  the  wood  hard  by,  and 
there  got  them  in  the  thickets  till  they  had  lost 
themselves,  and  I  could  not  find  the  way  into  any 
of  the  walks  in  the  wood,  which  indeed  are  very 
pleasant  if  I  could  have  found  them.  At  last  got 
out  of  the  wood  again  ;  and  I,  by  leaping  down  the 
little  bank,  coming  out  of  the  wood,  did  sprain  my 
right  foot,  which  brought  me  great  present  pain, 
but  presently,  with  walking,  it  went  away  for  the 
present,  and  so  the  women  and  W.  Hewer  and 
I  walked  upon  the  Downes,  where  a  flock  of  sheep 

44 


was  ;  and  the  most  pleasant  and  innocent  sight 
that  ever  I  saw  in  my  life— we  find  a  shepherd  and 
his  little  boy  reading,  far  away  from  any  houses  or 
sight  of  people,  the  Bible  to  him :  so  I  made  the 
boy  read  to  me,  which  he  did,  with  the  forced  tone 
that  children  do  usually  read,  that  was  mighty 
pretty,  and  then  I  did  give  him  something  and 
went  to  the  father,  and  talked  with  him  ;  and  I 
find  he  had  been  a  servant  in  my  cozen  Pepys's 
house,  and  told  me  what  was  become  of  their  old 
servants.  He  did  content  himself  mightily  in  my 
liking  his  boy's  reading,  and  did  bless  God  for 
him,  the  most  like  one  of  the  old  patriarchs  that 
ever  I  saw  in  my  life,  and  it  brought  those  thoughts 
of  the  old  age  of  the  world  in  my  mind  for  two  or 
three  days  after.  We  took  notice  of  his  woolen 
knit  stockings  of  two  colours  mixed,  and  of  his 
shoes  shod  with  iron  shoes,  both  at  the  toe  and 
heels,  and  with  great  nails  in  the  soles  of  his  feet, 
which  was  mighty  pretty :  and,  taking  notice  of 
them,  "  Why,"  says  the  poor  man,  "  the  downes, 
you  see,  are  full  of  stones,  and  we  are  faine  to  shoe 
ourselves  thus  ;  and  these,"  says  he,  "  will  make 
the  stones  fly  till  they  sing  before  me."  I  did 
give  the  poor  man  something,  for  which  he  was 
mighty  thankful,  and  I  tried  to  cast  stones  with 
his  home  crooke.  He  values  his  dog  mightily, 
that  would  turn  a  sheep  any  way  which  he  would 
have  him,  when  he  goes  to  fold  them  :  told  me 
there  was  about  eighteen  scoare  sheep  in  his  flock, 
and  that  he  hath  four  shillings  a  week  the  year 

45 


round  for  keeping  of  them  :  so  we  parted  thence 
with  mighty  pleasure  in  the  discourse  we  had  with 
this  poor  man,  and  Mrs.  Turner,  in  the  common 
fields  here,  did  gather  one  of  the  prettiest  nose- 
gays that  ever  I  saw  in  my  life. 

So  to  our  coach,  and  through  Mr.  Minnes's 
wood,  and  looked  upon  Mr.  Evelyn's  house ;  and 
so  over  the  common,  and  through  Epsum  towne 
to  our  inne,  in  the  way  stopping  a  poor  woman 
with  her  milk  pail,  and  in  one  of  my  gilt  tumblers 
did  drink  our  bellyfulls  of  milk,  better  than  any 
cream  e  ;  and  so  to  our  inne,  and  there  had  a  dish 
of  creame  ;  but  it  was  sour,  and  so  had  no  plea- 
sure in  it ;  and  so  paid  our  reckoning,  and  took 
coach,  it  being  about  seven  at  night,  and  passed 
and  saw  the  people  walking  with  their  wives  and 
children  to  take  the  ayre,  and  we  set  out  for  home, 
the  sun  by  and  by  going  down,  and  we  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  all  the  way  with  much  pleasure 
home,  talking  and  pleasing  ourselves  with  the 
pleasure  of  this  day's  work,  Mrs.  Turner  mightily 
pleased  with  my  resolution,  which,  I  tell  her  is 
never  to  keep  a  country  house,  but  to  keep  a  coach, 
and  with  my  wife  on  the  Saturday  to  go  sometimes 
for  a  day  to  this  place,  and  then  quit  to  another 
place ;  and  there  is  more  variety  and  as  little 
charge,  and  no  trouble,  as  there  is  in  a  country 
house.  Anon  it  grew  dark,  and  as  it  grew  dark 
we  had  the  pleasure  to  see  several  glow-wormes, 
which  was  mighty  pretty,  but  my  foot  begins  more 
and  more  to  pain  me  which  Mrs.  Turner,  by  keep- 


ing  her  warm  hand  upon  it,  did  much  ease  ;  but  so 
that  when  we  come  home,  which  was  just  at  eleven 
at  night,  I  was  not  able  to  walk  from  the  lane's 
end  to  my  house  without  being  helped,  which  did 
trouble  me,  and  therefore  to  bed  presently,  but, 
thanks  be  to  God,  found  that  I  had  not  been  missed, 
nor  any  business  happened  in  my  absence. 

Samuel  Pepys. 


Love  Among  the  Ruins        <^y        ^Qy 
(From  Dramatic  Lyrics) 

V\7HERE   the   quiet-coloured  end  of   evening 
smiles 

Miles  and  miles, 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep, 

Half  asleep, 
Tinkle  homeward  thro'  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

Now — the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 

47 


Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires  ; 
O'er  the  hundred  gated  circuit  of  a  wall, 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  pressed, 

Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was  ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 
Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  or  woe 

Long  ago ; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame  ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

Now  the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  over-rooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 

While  the  patching  house  leek's  head  of  blossom 
winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 


And  a  burning  ring  all  round  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 

And  I  know  while  thus  the  quiet-coloured  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  hills  in  undistinguished  grey 

Melt  away — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 

When  the  king  looked  where  she  now  looks,  breath- 
less dumb — 

Till  I  come. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 

All  the  mountains   topped  with  temples,  all  the 
glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts—and  then, 

All  the  men ! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  or  speech 

Each  on  each. 
E  49 


In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 

Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart !  Oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns  1 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin ! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest  1 

Love  is  best. 

R.  Browning. 

Love  Poems        ^>        ^Qy        *c> 

(From  M.  Este's  Book  of  Madrigals} 

T  N  the  merry  month  of  May, 

In  a  morn  by  break  of  day, 
Forth  I  walk'd  by  the  wood-side, 
When  as  May  was  in  his  pride  : 
There  I  spied  all  alone, 
Phyllida  and  Corydon. 
Much  ado  there  was,  God  wot ! 
He  would  love  and  she  would  not. 
She  said  never  man  was  true  ; 
He  said,  none  was  false  to  you. 
He  said,  he  had  loved  her  long  ; 
She  said,  Love  should  have  no  wrong. 
Corydon  would  kiss  her  then  ; 
She  said,  maids  must  kiss  no  men, 

50 


Till  they  did  far  good  and  all ; 
Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 
All  the  heavens  to  witness  truth 
Never  loved  a  truer  youth. 
Thus  with  many  a  pretty  oath, 
Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth, 
Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 
When  they  will  not  Love  abuse, 
Love  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded  ; 
And  Phyllida,  with  garlands  gay, 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  May. 

Nicholas  Breton. 
Psyche        'Qy        *£y        *s> 

(From  Primavera) 

O  HE  is  not  fair  as  some  are  fair, 

Cold  as  the  snow,  as  sunshine  gay  : 
On  her  clear  brow,  come  grief  what  may, 
She  suffers  not  too  stern  an  air  ; 
But  grave  in  silence,  sweet  in  speech, 
Loves  neither  mockery  nor  disdain  ; 
Gentle  to  all,  to  all  doth  teach 
The  charm  of  deeming  nothing  vain. 

She  joined  me  :  and  we  wandered  on  ; 
And  I  rejoiced.     I  cared  not  why, 
Deeming  it  immortality 
To  walk  with  such  a  soul  alone. 


Primroses  pale  grew  all  around, 
Violets  and  moss  and  ivy  wild  ; 
Yet,  drinking  sweetness  from  the  ground, 
I  was  but  conscious  that  she  smiled. 

The  wind  blew  all  her  shining  hair 
From  her  sweet  brows  ;  and  she,  the  while, 
Put  back  her  lovely  head,  to  smile 
On  my  enchanted  spirit  there. 
Jonquils  and  pansies  round  her  head 
Gleamed  softly ;  but  a  heavenlier  hue 
Upon  her  perfect  cheek  was  shed, 
And  in  her  eye  a  purer  blue. 

There  came  an  end  to  break  the  spell ; 
She  murmured  something  in  my  ear ; 
The  words  fell  vague,  I  did  not  hear, 
And  ere  I  knew,  I  said  farewell ; 
And  homeward  went,  with  happy  heart 
And  spirit  dwelling  in  a  gleam, 
Rapt  to  a  Paradise  apart, 
With  all  the  world  become  a  dream. 

Yet  now  too  soon,  the  world's  strong  strife 
Breaks  on  me  pitiless  again  : 
The  pride  of  passion,  hopes  made  vain, 
The  wounds,  the  weariness  of  life. 
And  losing  that  forgetful  sphere, 
For  some  less  troubled  world  I  sigh, 
If  not  divine,  more  free,  more  clear, 
Than  this  poor  soiled  humanity. 

52 


But  when,  in  trances  of  the  night, 
Wakeful,  my  lonely  bad  I  keep, 
And  linger  at  the  gate  of  sleep, 
Fearing,  lest  dreams  deny  me  light ; 
Her  image  comes  into  the  gloom, 
With  her  pale  features  moulded  fair, 
Her  breathing  beauty,  morning  bloom, 
My  heart's  delight,  my  tongue's  despair. 

With  loving  hand  she  touches  mine. 
Showers  her  soft  tresses  on  my  brow, 
And  heals  my  heart,  I  know  not  how, 
Bathing  me  with  her  looks  divine. 
She  beckons  me  ;  and  I  arise  : 
And,  grief  no  more  remembering, 
Wander  again  with  rapturous  eyes 
Through  those  enchanted  lands  of  spring. 

Then,  as  I  walk  with  her  in  peace, 
I  leave  this  troubled  air  below, 
Where,  hurrying  sadly  to  and  fro, 
Men  toil,  and  strain,  and  cannot  cease  : 
Then,  freed  from  tyrannous  Fate's  control, 
Untouched  by  years  or  grief,  I  see 
Transfigured  in  that  childlike  soul 
The  soil'd  soul  of  humanity. 

Laurence  Binyon* 


Song"        *^x        'Q*        ^o^        ^^ 

(From  the  Third  Book  of  Airs] 

C  HALL  I  come,  sweet  Love,  to  thee 
When  the  evening  beams  are  set  ? 

Shall  I  not  excluded  be, 

Will  you  find  no  feigned  let  ? 

Let  me  not  for  pity,  more 

Tell  the  long  hours  at  your  door. 

Who  can  tell  what  thief  or  foe, 
In  the  covert  of  the  night, 

For  his  prey  will  work  my  woe, 

Or  through  wicked  foul  despite  ? 

So  may  I  die  unredrest 

Ere  my  long  love  be  possest. 

But  to  let  such  dangers  pass, 

Which  a  lover's  thoughts  disdain, 

1  Tis  enough  in  such  a  place 

To  attend  love's  joys  in  vain  : 

Do  not  mock  me  in  thy  bed, 

While  these  cold  nights  freeze  me  dead. 


Thomas  Campion. 


54 


Sonnet        ^        <^y        <^        "C^ 

(Written  in  Shakspere's  Poems,  facing 
UA  Lover's  Complaint") 

T)  RIGHT  star,  would  I  were  stedfast  as  thou  art- 

Not  in  lore  spendour  hung  aloft  the  night 
And  watching  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priest-like  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 
No — yet  still  stedfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender  taken  breath — 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

John  Keats. 


How  Three  Brothers,  poor  men, 

went  out  into  the  World  and 

acquired  great  riches        ^>        -^        ^y 

(From  Le  Piacevoli  Notti—  Night  VII,  Fable  5) 

HPHERE  once  lived  in  this  excellent  city  of  ours 
a  poor  man  to  whom  were  born  three  sons, 
but  by  reason  of  his  great  poverty  he  could  find 
no  means  of  feeding  and  rearing  them.  On  this 
account  the  three  youths,  pressed  by  need  and 

55 


seeing  clearly  the  cruel  poverty  of  their  father 
and  his  decaying  strength,  took  counsel  amongst 
themselves,  and  resolved  to  lighten  the  burden 
which  lay  upon  their  father's  shoulders  by  going 
out  into  the  world  and  wandering  from  place  to 
place  with  a  staff  and  a  wallet,  seeking  in  this 
wise  to  win  certain  trifles  by  the  aid  of  which  they 
might  be  able  to  keep  themselves  alive.  Where- 
fore, having  knelt  humbly  before  their  father,  they 
begged  him  to  give  them  leave  to  go  forth  into  the 
world  in  search  of  their  sustenance,  promising  at 
the  same  time  that  they  would  come  back  to  the 
city  when  ten  years  should  have  gone  by.  The 
father  gave  them  the  desired  licence,  and  with 
this  purpose  in  their  minds  they  set  forth  and 
travelled  until  they  came  to  a  certain  place  where 
it  seemed  to  them  all  that  they  would  do  well  to 
part  one  from  another. 

Now  the  eldest  of  the  brothers  by  chance  found 
his  way  into  a  camp  of  soldiers  who  were  on  the 
march  to  the  wars,  and  straightway  agreed  to  take 
service  with  the  chief  of  a  band.  In  a  very  short 
time  he  became  highly  expert  in  the  art  of  war, 
and  a  powerful  man-at-arms  and  a  doughty  fighter, 
so  much  so  that  he  took  a  leading  place  amongst 
his  fellows.  So  nimble  and  so  dexterous  was  he, 
that,  with  a  dagger  in  each  hand  he  would  scale 
the  wall  of  every  fortress  they  assaulted. 

The  second  brother  betook  himself  to  a  certain 
seaport  where  many  ships  were  built,  and  having 
entered  the  service  of  one  of  the  master  ship- 

56 


wrights,  a  man  greatly  skilled  in  his  handicraft,  he 
worked  so  well  and  with  such  diligence  that  in  a 
little  time  there  was  no  other  of  the  workmen 
equal  to  him  in  his  calling,  and  the  good  report  of 
him  was  spread  through  all  the  country. 

The  youngest  brother,  as  it  chanced,  came  one 
day  to  a  certain  wood  where  a  nightingale  was 
singing  most  sweetly,  and  so  strongly  was  he 
charmed  and  fascinated  thereby  that  he  ever  went 
on  his  way  following  the  traces  and  the  song  of  the 
bird  through  shadowy  valleys  and  thick  woods, 
through  lakes,  through  solitary  places,  through 
echoing  forests,  and  through  regions  desert  and 
unpeopled.  So  powerfully  did  the  sweetness  of 
the  bird's  song  take  hold  of  him,  that,  forgetful 
of  the  way  which  led  back  to  the  world  of  men,  he 
continued  to  dwell  in  these  wild  woods  ;  wherefore, 
having  lived  ten  whole  years  in  this  solitary  wise 
apart  from  dwelling  of  any  kind,  he  became,  as 
it  were,  a  wild  man  of  the  woods.  By  the  long 
lapse  of  time,  and  by  the  unvarying  and  constant 
usance  of  the  place  in  which  he  tarried,  he  grew 
skilled  in  the  tongue  of  all  the  birds  to  which  he 
listened  with  the  keenest  pleasure,  understanding 
all  they  had  to  tell  him,  and  being  known  by  them 
as  if  he  had  been  the  god  Pan  amongst  the  fauns. 

When  the  day  appointed  for  the  brethren  to 
return  to  their  home  had  come,  the  first  and  the 
second  betook  themselves  to  the  place  of  meeting, 
and  there  awaited  the  third  brother.  When  they 
saw  him  approaching,  all  covered  with  hair  and 

57 


naked  of  raiment,  they  ran  to  meet  him,  and,  out 
of  the  tender  love  they  had  for  him,  broke  out  into 
plentiful  tears  and  embraced  and  kissed  him,  and 
set  to  work  to  clothe  him.  Next  they  betook 
themselves  to  an  inn  to  get  some  food,  and,  while 
they  sat  there,  behold  !  a  bird  flew  up  on  to  a  tree 
and  spake  thus  as  it  sang :  "  Be  it  known  to  you, 
O  men  that  sit  and  eat,  that  by  the  corner-stone  of 
this  inn  is  hidden  a  mighty  treasure,  which  through 
many  long  years  has  been  there  reserved  for  you. 
Go  and  take  it."  And  having  thus  spoken,  the  bird 
flew  away. 

Then  the  brother  who  had  come  last  to  the 
place  of  meeting  expounded  clearly  to  the  other 
two  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  words  which  the 
bird  had  uttered,  and  straightway  they  digged  in 
the  place  which  had  been  described,  and  took  out 
the  treasure  which  they  found  therein  concealed. 
In  this  wise  they  all  became  men  of  great  wealth, 
and  went  back  to  their  father's  home. 

After  they  had  tenderly  greeted  and  embraced 
their  father,  and  given  rich  and  sumptuous  feastings, 
it  chanced  that  one  day  the  youngest  brother  heard 
the  song  of  another  bird,  which  spake  as  follows  : 
"  In  the  ^Egean  Sea,  within  the  range  of  about  ten 
miles,  is  an  island  known  as  the  isle  of  Chios,  upon 
which  the  daughter  of  Apollo  has  built  a  massy 
castle  of  marble.  At  the  entrance  of  this  there 
lies  a  serpent,  as  the  guardian  thereof,  spitting 
out  fire  and  venom  from  its  mouth,  and  upon  the 
threshold  is  chained  a  basilisk.  There  Aglea,  one 

58 


of  the  fairest  ladies  in  the  world,  is  kept  a  prisoner 
with  all  the  treasure  which  she  has  heaped  up  and 
collected,  together  with  a  vast  store  of  coin.  Who- 
ever shall  go  to  this  place  and  scale  the  tower, 
shall  be  the  master  of  the  treasure  and  of  Aglea 
as  well."  And  when  the  bird  had  thus  spoken  it 
flew  away.  As  soon  as  the  meaning  of  its  words 
had  been  made  known,  the  three  brothers  deter- 
mined to  go  to  the  place  it  had  described — the 
first  brother  having  promised  to  scale  the  tower  by 
the  aid  of  two  daggers,  and  the  second  to  build  a 
swift-sailing  ship.  This  having  been  accomplished, 
in  a  brief  time  they  set  forth,  and,  after  crossing 
the  sea  without  mishap,  being  wafted  along  by 
a  favourable  breeze,  they  found  themselves  one 
morning  just  before  daybreak  close  to  the  isle  of 
Chios.  Then  the  man-at-arms  by  the  aid  of  two 
daggers  climbed  the  tower,  and,  having  seized 
Aglea  and  bound  her  with  cords,  handed  her  over 
to  his  brothers.  Next,  after  he  had  laid  hold  on 
the  secret  hoard  of  rubies  and  precious  stones 
and  gold,  he  descended  to  the  ground  rejoicing 
greatly,  and  the  three  adventurers,  leaving  naked 
the  land  by  their  plundering,  returned  to  their 
homes  safe  and  sound.  But  with  regard  to  the 
lady,  seeing  that  it  was  not  possible  to  divide 
her  into  three  parts,  there  arose  a  sharp  dispute 
between  the  three  brothers  as  to  which  of  them 
should  retain  her,  and  the  wrangling  over  this 
point  to  decide  which  had  the  best  claim  upon  her 
was  very  long.  Indeed,  up  to  this  very  day  it  is 

59 


still  before  the  court ;  wherefore  we  will  each 
settle  the  cause  as  we  think  right,  while  the  judge 
keeps  us  waiting  for  his  decision. 

Giovanni  Francesco  Straparola. 


Ode        ^y        *Qy        <^x        ^» 

(From  Delia) 

"NJOW  each  creature  joys    the  other,  passing 

happy  days  and  hours  ; 
One  bird  reports  unto  another,  in  the  fall  of  silver 

showers ; 
Whilst  the  Earth,  our  common  mother,  hath  her 

bosom  decked  with  flowers. 

Whilst  the  greatest  Torch  of  heaven,  with  bright 

rays,  warms  Flora's  lap  ; 
Making  nights  and  days  both  even,  cheering  plants 

with  fresher  sap  : 
My  field  of  flowers  quite  bereaven,  wants  refresh 

of  better  hap. 

Echo,  daughter  of  the  Air,  babbling  guest  of  rocks 

and  hills, 
Knows  the  name  of  my  fierce  Fair,  and  sounds 

the  accents  of  my  ills. 
Each  thing  pities  my  despair ;  whilst  that  she  her 

lover  kills. 

60 


Whilst  that  she,  O  cruel  maid !  doth  me  and  my 

love  despise  ; 
My  life's  flourish  is  decayed,  that  depended  on  her 

eyes  : 
But  her  will  must  be  obeyed ;  and  well  he  ends, 

for  love,  who  dies. 

Samuel  Daniel. 


Song        ^y        *£y        'Cy        "Cy 

'""PHE  lark  now  leaves  his  wat'ry  nest, 

And  climbing,  shakes  his  dewy  wings ; 
He  takes  this  window  for  the  east, 

And  to  implore  your  light  he  sings  : 
Awake,  awake  !  the  morn  will  never  rise 
Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 
The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season  takes ; 

But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are 
Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress  wakes. 

Awake,  awake  !  break  through  your  veils  of  lawn, 

Then  draw  your  curtains  and  begin  the  dawn. 

Sir  W.  Davenant. 


61 


The  Shepherd's   Wife's   Song        *o 
(From  The  Mourning  Garment] 

A  H,  what  is  love  ?     It  is  a  pretty  thing, 
As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king  ; 
And  sweeter  too, 

For  kings  have  cares  that  wait  upon  a  crown, 
And  cares  can  make  the  sweetest  love  to  frown  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

His  flocks  are  folded,  he  comes  home  at  night, 
As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight ; 

And  merrier  too, 

For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  state  require, 
Where  shepherds  careless  carol  by  the  fire  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

He  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blithe  to  eat 

His  cream  and  curds  as  doth  the  king  his  meat ; 

And  blither  too, 

For  kings  have  often  fears  when  they  do  sup, 
Where  shepherds  dread  no  poison  in  their  cup  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain? 
62 


To  bed  he  goes,  as  wanton  then,  I  ween, 
As  is  a  king  in  dalliance  with  a  queen  ; 

More  wanton  too, 

For  kings  have  many  griefs  effects  to  move, 
Where  shepherds  have  no  greater  grief  than  love  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Upon  his  couch  of  straw  he  sleeps  as  sound 
As  doth  the  king  upon  his  bed  of  down  ; 

More  sounder  too, 

For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to  spill, 
Where  weary  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their  fill : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Thus  with  his  wife  he  spends  the  year  as  blithe 
As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  sithe  ; 

And  blither  too, 

For  kings  have  wars  and  broils  to  take  in  hand, 
Where  shepherds  laugh  and  love  upon  the  land : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Robert  Greene. 


Daybreak        *^y        -^        -<Cy 
(From  Poems) 

'IPO  find  the  western  path, 

Right  through  the  gates  of  wrath 

I  urge  my  way  ; 
Sweet  morning  leads  one  on  ; 
With  soft  repentant  moan 

I  see  the  break  of  day. 

The  war  of  swords  and  spears, 
Melted  by  dewy  tears, 

Exhales  on  high  ; 
The  sun  is  freed  from  fears, 
And  with  soft  grateful  tears 

Ascends  the  sky. 

William  Blake. 


May  and  Death        *o        ^>        ^y 

(From  Dramatic  Lyrics] 

T  WISH  that  when  you  died  last  May, 

Charles,  there  had  died  along  with  you 
Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things ; 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

A  foolish  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps  ! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening  ends. 

64 


So,  for  their  sake,  be  May  still  May ! 

Let  their  new  time,  as  mine  of  old, 
Do  all  it  did  for  me  :  I  bid 

Sweet  sights  and  sounds  throng  manifold. 

Only  one  little  sight,  one  plant, 

Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 
Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 

Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between, — 

That,  they  might  spare  ;  a  certain  wood 

Might  miss  the  plant :  their  loss  were  small : 

But  I, — when'er  the  leaf  grows  there, 
Its  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that's  all. 

Robert  Browning. 


SUMMER 
FOR    MANHOOD 


THEN  came  the  jolly  Sommer,  being  dig-lit 
In  a  thin  silken  cassock  coloured  greene, 
That  was  unlyned  all,  to  be  more  light ; 
And  on  his  head  a  girlond  well  beseene 
He  wore,  from  which,  as  he  had  chauffed  been, 
The  sweat  did  drop  ;  and  in  his  hand  he  bore 
A  boawe  and  shaftes,  as  ho  in  forrest  greens 
Had  hunted  late  the  Libbard  or  the  Bore, 
And  now  would  bathe  his  limbes  with  labor  heated  sore, 

Ed.  Spenser, 
Mutabilitiet  Canto  vii. 


Elegy  on  a  Lady  whom  grief  for  the 
death  of  her  Betrothed  killed  ^> 

(From  Shorter  Poems] 

A  SSEMBLE,  all  ye  maidens,  at  the  door, 
<**•    And  all  ye  loves,  assemble  :  far  and  wide 
Proclaim  the  bridal,  that  proclaimed  before 
Has  been  deferred  to  this  late  eventide  : 

For  on  this  night  the  bride, 
The  days  of  her  betrothal  over, 
Leaves  the  parental  hearth  for  evermore  ; 
To-night  the  bride  goes  forth  to  meet  her  lover. 

Reach  down  the  wedding  vesture,  that  has  lain 
Yet  all  unvisited,  the  silken  gown  : 
Bring  out  the  bracelets,  and  the  golden  chain 
Her  dearer  friends  provided  :  sere  and  brown 

Bring  out  the  festal  crown 
And  set  it  on  her  forehead  lightly : 
Though  it  be  withered,  twine  no  wreath  again  : 
This  only  is  the  crown  she  can  wear  rightly. 

Cloke  her  in  ermine,  for  the  night  is  cold, 
And  wrap  her  warmly,  for  the  night  is  long. 
In  pious  hands  the  flaming  torches  hold, 
While  her  attendants,  chosen  from  among 

Her  faithful  virgin  throng, 
May  lay  her  in  her  cedar  litter, 
Decking  her  coverlet  with  sprigs  of  gold, 
Roses  and  lilies  white  that  best  befit  her. 


Sound  flute  and  tabor,  that  the  bridal  be 
Not  without  music,  nor  with  these  alone, 
But  let  the  viol  lead  the  melody 
With  lesser  intervals,  and  plaintive  moan 

Of  sinking  semitone ; 
And  all  in  choir,  the  virgin  voices 
Rest  not  from  singing  in  skilled  harmony 
The  song  that  aye  the  bridegroom's  ear  rejoices. 

Let  the  priests  go  before,  arrayed  in  white, 
And  let  the  dark-stoled  minstrels  follow  slow, 
Next  they  that  bear  her,  honoured  on  this  night. 
And  then  the  maidens  in  a  double  row, 

Each  singing  soft  and  low, 
And  each  on  high  a  torch  upstaying  : 
Unto  her  lover  lead  her  forth  with  light, 
With  music  and  with  singing  and  with  praying. 

'Twas  at  this  sheltering  hour  he  nightly  came, 
And  found  her  trusty  window  open  wide, 
And  knew  the  signal  of  the  timorous  flame, 
That  long  the  restless  curtain  would  not  hide 

Her  form  that  stood  beside  ; 
As  scarce  she  dared  to  be  delighted, 
Listening  to  that  sweet  tale,  that  is  no  shame 
To  faithful  lovers,  that  their  hearts  have  plighted. 

But  now  for  many  days  the  dewy  grass 
Has  shewn  no  markings  of  his  feet  at  morn  : 
And  watching  she  has  seen  no  shadow  pass 
The  moonlit  walk,  and  heard  no  music  borne 
Upon  her  ear  forlorn. 
70 


In  vain  has  she  looked  out  to  greet  him  ; 
He  has  not  come,  he  will  not  come,  alas  ! 
So  let  us  bear  her  out  where  she  must  meet  him. 

Now  to  the  river  bank  the  priests  are  come, 
The  bark  is  ready  to  receive  its  freight ; 
Let  some  prepare  her  place  therein,  and  some 
Embark  the  litter  with  its  slender  weight : 

The  rest  stand  by  in  state, 
And  sing  her  a  safe  passage  over  ; 
While  she  is  oared  across  to  her  new  home, 
Into  the  arms  of  her  expectant  lover. 

And  thou,  O  lover,  that  art  on  the  watch, 
Where  on  the  banks  of  the  forgetful  streams 
The  pale  indifferent  ghosts  wander,  and  snatch 
The  sweeter  moments  of  their  broken  dreams, — 

Thou,  when  the  torch-light  gleams, 
When  thou  shalt  see  the  slow  procession, 
And  when  thine  ears  the  fitful  music  catch, 
Rejoice  !  for  thou  art  near  to  thy  possession. 

/?.  Bridges. 

Envy        'Qy        *^y        ^>        ^> 

T  T  E  was  first  always.     Fortune 

Shone  bright  in  his  face. 
I  fought  for  years  :  with  no  effort 

He  conquered  the  place. 
We  ran  :  my  feet  were  all  bleeding, 

But  he  won  the  race. 

7' 


My  home  lay  deep  in  the  shadow, 

His  full  in  the  sun. 
Whatever  service  he  called  for 

It  straightway  was  done. 
Once  I  staked  all  my  heart's  treasure  : 
We  played — and  he  won. 

Spite  of  his  many  successes 

Men  loved  him  the  same  ; 
My  one  pale  ray  of  good  fortune 

Met  scoffing  and  shame. 
We  sinned  :  and  men  gave  him  pity 

And  me  only  blame. 

Yes  !  and  just  now  I  have  seen  him, 

Cold,  smiling,  and  blest, 
Laid  in  his  coffin,  God  help  me  1 

While  he  is  at  rest 
I  must  toil  wearily  onward. 

Ev'n  Death  loved  him  best. 

Anon. 


The  Scrutinie        ^y        ^y        *o 
(From  Lucas  to) 

A1THY  should  you  sweare  I  am  forsworn, 

Since  thine  I  vow'd  to  be  ? 
Lady,  it  is  already  Morn, 
And  'twas  last  night  I  swore  to  thee 
That  fond  impossibility. 
72 


Have  I  not  lov'd  thee  much  and  long, 

A  tedious  twelve  hours  space  ? 
I  must  all  other  beauties  wrong, 

And  rob  thee  of  a  new  imbrace  ; 

Could  I  still  dote  upon  thy  face. 

Not  but  all  joy  in  thy  browne  haire 
By  others  may  be  found  ; 

But  I  must  search  the  black  and  faire, 
Like  skilfulle  minerallists  that  sound 
For  treasure  in  unplow'd  up  ground. 

Then  if  when  I  have  lov'd  my  round, 

Thou  prov'st  the  pleasant  she  ; 
With  spoyles  of  meaner  beauties  crown'd, 

I  laden  will  returne  to  thee, 

Ev'n  sated  with  varietie. 

/?.  Lovelace. 


To  Evening        *Qy        <^        -o> 

T  F  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales  ; 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  ; 

73 


Now  air  is  hushed,  save  when  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing  ; 

Or  when  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  • 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening 

vale 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit . 

As  musing  slow  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with 

sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

Then  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car  ; 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallowed  pile, 

Or  upland  fallows  grey 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

74 


But  when  chill  blustering  winds  or  driving  rain 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ; 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light. 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes. 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed 
Shall    Fancy,    Friendship,    Science,   rose -lipped 

Health, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  hymn  thy  favourite  name  ! 

W.  Collins. 


May  Evening        ^>        >^y        ^        <^ 
(From  Poems >  1895) 

Q  O  late  the  rustling  shower  was  heard ; 

Yet  now  the  open  West  is  still. 
The  wet  leaves  flash,  and  lightly  stirred 
Great  drops  out  of  the  lilac  spill. 
Peacefully  blown  the  ashen  clouds 
Uncurtain  heights  of  colder  sky. 
Here  as  I  wander,  beauty  crowds 
With  freshness  keen  upon  my  eye. 

Now  the  shorn  turf  a  lustrous  green 
Takes  in  the  massy  cedar's  shade  ; 
And  through  the  poplars  showery  screen 
Fires  of  the  evening  blush  and  fade. 
Each  way  my  marvelling  senses  feel 
Swift  odour,  light  and  luminous  hue 
Of  leaf  and  flower  upon  them  steal ; 
The  songs  of  birds  pierce  my  heart  through. 

The  tulip  clear,  like  yellow  flame, 
Burns  upright  from  the  gloomy  mould  ; 
As  though  for  passion  forth  they  came, 
Red  hearts  of  peonies  unfold  ; 
And  perfumes,  tender,  sweet,  intense, 
Enter  me  like  a  delicate  blade  ; 
The  lilac  odour  wounds  my  sense  ; 
Of  the  rich  rose  I  am  afraid. 

Laurence  Binyon. 


The  Faerie  Queen        ^>        *o        "Qy 
(Book  II,  chap,  ix 

'"PHE  whiles  some  one  did  chaunt  this  lovely  lay: 
Ah !  see,  whoso  fayre  thing  doest  faine  to  see, 
In  springing  flowre  the  image  of  thy  day. 
Ah  !  see  the  Virgin  Rose,  how  sweetly  shee 
Doth  just  peepe  foorth  with  bashfull  modestie, 
That  fairer  seemes  the  lesse  ye  see  her  may. 
Lo  !  see  soone  after  how  more  bold  and  free 
Her  bared  bosome  she  doth  broad  display  ; 
Lo  !  see  soone  after  how  she  fades  and  falls  away. 

So  passeth,  in  the  passing  of  a  day, 

Of  mortall  life  the  leafe,  the  bud,  the  flowre  ; 

Ne  more  doth  florish  after  first  decay, 

That  earst  was  sought  to  deck  both  bed  and  bowre 

Of  many  a  lady,  and  many  a  Paramowre. 

Gather  therefore  the  Rose  whilest  yet  is  prime, 

For  soone  comes  age  that  will  her  pride  deflowre  ; 

Gather  the  Rose  of  love  whilest  yet  is  time, 

Whilest  loving  thou  mayst  loved  be  with  equall 

crime. 

Ed.  Spenser. 

Song        ^>        *^x        ^y        -^> 

(From  Shorter  Poems] 

r~P  HE  hill  pines  were  sighing, 

O'ercast  and  chill  was  the  day, 
A  mist  in  the  valley  lying 
Blotted  the  pleasant  May. 

77 


But  deep  in  the  glen's  bosom 

Summer  slept  in  the  fire 
Of  the  odorous  gorse-blossom 

And  the  hot  scent  of  the  briar. 

A  ribald  cuckoo  clamoured. 

And  out  of  the  copse  the  stroke 
Of  the  iron  axe  that  hammered 

At  the  iron  heart  of  the  oak. 

R,  Bridges. 

Essay  X.        *^y        "^        -Qy        ^y 

(From  The  Spectator} 

TT  is  with  much  satisfaction  that  I  hear  this 
great  city  enquiring  day  by  day  after  these  my 
papers,  and  receiving  my  morning  lectures  with  a 
becoming  seriousness  and  attention.  My  publisher 
tells  me,  that  there  are  already  three  thousand  of 
them  distributed  every  day ;  so  that  if  I  allow 
twenty  readers  to  every  paper,  which  I  look  upon 
as  a  modest  computation,  I  may  reckon  about 
threescore  thousand  disciples  in  London  and 
Westminster,  who  I  hope  will  take  care  to  dis- 
tinguish themselves  from  the  thoughtless  herd  of 
their  ignorant  and  unattentive  brethren.  Since  I 
have  raised  myself  to  so  great  an  audience,  I  shall 
spare  no  pains  to  make  their  instruction  agreeable, 
and  their  diversion  useful.  For  which  reason  I 
shall  endeavour  to  enliven  morality  with  wit,  and 
to  temper  wit  with  morality,  that  my  readers  may, 


if  possible,  both  ways  find  their  account  in  the 
speculation  of  the  day.  And  to  the  end  that  their 
virtue  and  discretion  may  not  be  short,  transient 
and  intermitting  starts  of  thought,  I  have  resolved 
to  refresh  their  memories  from  day  to  day,  till  1 
have  recovered  them  out  of  that  desperate  state  of 
vice  and  folly  into  which  the  age  is  fallen.  The 
mind  that  lies  fallow  but  a  single  day,  sprouts  up 
follies  that  are  only  to  be  killed  by  a  constant  and 
assiduous  culture.  It  was  said  of  Socrates  that  he 
brought  philosophy  down  from  Heaven,  to  inhabit 
among  men  :  and  I  shall  be  ambitious  to  have  it 
said  of  me  that  I  have  brought  philosophy  out  of 
closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to 
dwell  at  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea  tables  and 
in  coffee  houses. 

I  would  therefore  in  a  very  particular  manner 
recommend  these  my  speculations  to  all  well- 
regulated  families,  that  set  apart  one  hour  in  every 
morning  for  tea  and  bread  and  butter  :  and  would 
earnestly  advise  them  for  their  good  to  order  this 
paper  to  be  punctually  served  up,  and  to  be  looked 
upon  as  part  of  the  tea  equipage. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon  observes  that  a  well-written 
book,  compared  with  its  rivals  and  antagonists, 
is  like  Moses'  serpent  that  immediately  swallowed 
up  and  devoured  those  of  the  ^Egyptians.  I  shall 
not  be  so  vain  as  to  think,  that  where  The  Spectator 
appears,  the  other  public  prints  will  vanish,  but 
shall  leave  it  to  my  reader's  consideration,  whether 
it  is  not  much  better  to  be  let  into  the  knowledge 

79 


of  one's  self,  than  to  hear  what  passes  in  Muscovy 
or  Poland,  and  to  amuse  ourselves  with  such 
writings  as  tend  to  the  wearing  out  of  ignorance, 
passion  and  prejudice,  than  such  as  naturally 
conduce  to  inflame  hatreds  and  make  enmities 
irreconcilable. 

In  the  next  place,  I  would  recommend  this  paper 
to  the  daily  perusal  of  those  whom  I  cannot  but 
consider  as  my  good  brothers  and  allies.  I  mean 
the  fraternity  of  spectators,  who  live  in  the  world 
without  having  anything  to  do  in  it ;  and  either 
by  the  affluence  of  their  fortunes,  or  the  laziness 
of  their  dispositions,  have  no  other  business  with 
the  rest  of  mankind  but  to  look  upon  them. 
Under  this  class  of  men  are  comprehended  all 
contemplative  tradesmen,  titular  physicans,  Fellows 
of  the  Royal  Society,  Templars  that  are  not  given 
to  be  contentious,  and  Statesmen  that  are  out  of 
business ;  in  short,  every  one  that  considers  the 
world  as  a  theatre,  and  desires  to  form  a  right 
judgment  of  those  who  are  the  actors  on  it. 

There  is  another  set  of  men  that  I  must  like- 
wise lay  a  claim  to,  whom  I  have  lately  called  the 
Blanks  of  society,  as  being  altogether  unfurnished 
with  ideas,  till  the  business  and  conversation  of 
the  day  has  supplied  them.  I  have  often  con- 
sidered these  poor  souls  with  an  eye  of  great 
commiseration,  when  I  have  heard  them  asking 
the  first  man  they  meet  with,  whether  there  was 
any  news  stirring?  and  by  that  means  gathering 
together  materials  for  thinking.  These  needy 
80 


persons  do  not  know  what  to  talk  of,  till  about 
twelve  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  for  by  that  time 
they  are  pretty  good  judges  of  the  weather,  know 
which  way  the  wind  sits,  and  whether  the  Dutch 
mail  be  come  in.  As  they  lie  at  the  mercy  of  the 
first  man  they  meet,  and  are  grave  or  impertinent 
all  the  day  long,  according  to  the  notions  which 
they  have  imbibed  in  the  morning,  I  would 
earnestly  intreat  them  not  to  stir  out  of  their 
chambers  till  they  have  read  this  paper,  and  do 
promise  them  that  I  will  daily  instil  into  them 
such  sound  and  wholesome  sentiments  as  shall 
have  a  good  effect  on  their  conversation  for  the 
ensuing  twelve  hours. 

But  there  are  none  to  whom  this  paper  will  be 
more  useful  than  to  the  female  world.  I  have 
often  thought  there  has  not  been  sufficient  pains 
taken  in  rinding  out  proper  employments  and 
diversions  for  the  fair  ones.  Their  amusements 
seem  contrived  for  them,  rather  as  they  are  women, 
than  as  they  are  reasonable  creatures  ;  and  are 
more  adapted  to  the  sex  than  to  the  species.  The 
toilet  is  their  great  scene  of  business,  and  the 
right  adjusting  of  their  hair  the  principal  employ- 
ment of  their  lives.  The  sorting  of  a  suit  of 
ribbons  is  reckoned  a  very  good  morning's  work ; 
and  if  they  make  an  excursion  to  a  mercer's,  or 
a  toy-shop,  so  great  a  fatigue  makes  them  unfit 
for  anything  else  all  the  day  after.  Their  mere 
serious  occupations  are  sewing  and  embroidery, 
and  their  greatest  drudgery  the  preparation  of 
G  Si 


jellies  and  sweetmeats.  This,  I  say,  is  the  state 
of  ordinary  women  :  though  I  know  there  are 
multitudes  of  those  of  a  more  elevated  life  and 
conversation,  that  move  in  an  exalted  sphere  of 
knowledge  and  virtue,  that  join  all  the  beauties 
of  the  mind  to  the  ornaments  of  dress,  and  inspire 
a  kind  of  awe  and  respect,  as  well  as  love,  into 
their  male  beholders.  I  hope  to  increase  the 
number  of  them  by  publishing  this  daily  paper, 
which  I  shall  always  endeavour  to  make  an  inno- 
cent if  not  an  improving  entertainment,  and  by 
that  means  at  least  divert  the  minds  of  my  female 
readers  from  greater  trifles.  At  the  same  time,  as 
I  would  fain  give  some  finishing  touches  to  those 
which  are  already  the  most  beautiful  pieces  in 
human  nature,  I  shall  endeavour  to  point  out  all 
those  imperfections  that  are  blemishes,  as  well  as 
those  virtues  which  are  the  embellishments,  of  the 
sex.  In  the  meanwhile  I  hope  these,  my  gentle 
readers,  who  have  so  much  time  on  their  hands, 
will  not  grudge  throwing  away  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  a  day  on  this  paper,  since  they  may  do  it 
without  any  hindrance  to  business. 

I  know  several  of  my  friends  and  well-wishers 
are  in  great  pain  for  me,  lest  I  should  not  be  able 
to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  a  paper  which  I  oblige 
myself  to  furnish  every  day ;  but  to  make  them 
easy  in  this  particular,  I  will  promise  them  faith- 
fully to  give  it  over  as  soon  as  I  grow  dull.  This 
I  know  will  be  matter  of  great  raillery  to  the  small 
wits ;  who  will  frequently  put  me  in  mind  of  my 

82 


promise,  desire  me  to  keep  my  word,  assure  me 
that  it  is  high  time  to  give  over,  with  many  other 
little  pleasantries  of  the  like  nature,  which  men 
of  a  little  smart  genius  cannot  forbear  throwing 
out  against  their  best  friends,  when  they  have  such 
a  handle  given  them  of  being  witty.  But  let  them 
remember  that  I  do  hereby  enter  my  caveat  against 

this  piece  of  raillery. 

Joseph  Addison. 


Sonnets  cxxviii.,  cxxx.         ^>        "v>         ^y 

T  T  OW  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play'st, 

Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  motion  sounds 
With  thy  sweet  ringers,  when  thou  gently  sway'st 
The  wiry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds, 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand, 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest  reap, 
At  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand  ! 
To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  their  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips, 
O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait, 
Making  dead  wood  more  bless'd  than  living  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this, 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips  to  kiss. 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun  ; 
Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red  : 
If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun  ; 
If  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head. 

83 


I  have  seen  roses  damask'd,  red  and  white, 
But  no  such  roses  see  I  in  her  cheeks  ; 
And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 
Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress  reeks. 
I  love  to  hear  her  speak, — yet  well  I  know 
That  music  hath  a  far  more  pleasing  sound  : 
I  grant  I  never  saw  a  goddess  go, — 
My  mistress  when  she  walks,  treads  on  the  ground; 
And  yet,  by  Heaven,  I  think  my  love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare. 

W.  Shakspere. 


Siren  Chorus        *s>        <£y        o 
From  The  Sea  Bride] 

HTROOP  home  to  silent  grots  and  caves, 

Troop  home  and  mimic  as  you  go 
The  mournful  winding  of  the  waves, 
Which  to  their  dark  abysses  flow.      > 

At  this  sweet  hour  all  things  beside 
In  amorous  pairs  to  covert  creep, 

The  swans  that  brush  the  evening  tide 
Homeward  in  snowy  couples  keep. 

In  his  green  den  the  murmuring  seal 
Close  by  his  sleek  companion  lies, 

While  singly  we  to  bedward  steal, 
And  close  in  fruitless  sleep  our  eyes. 


In  bowers  of  love  men  take  their  rest, 

In  loveless  bowers  we  sigh  alone, 
With  bosom-friends  are  others  blest, 

But  we  have  none — but  we  have  none. 

George  Darley. 

Song          ^>          ^y          ^y          ^y 

(From  Orlando  Gibbons'  first  set  of  Madrigals,  1612) 

T^AIR  is  the  rose,  yet  fades  with  heat  or  cold  ; 
Sweet  are  the  violets,  yet  soon  grown  old  : 
The  lily's  white,  yet  in  one  day  'tis  done  ; 
White  is  the  snow,  yet  melts  against  the  sun : 
So  white,  so  sweet  was  my  fair  mistress'  face, 
Yet  altered  quite  in  one  short  hour's  space  : 
So  short-lived  beauty  a  vain  gloss  doth  borrow, 
Breathing  delight  to-day,  but  none  to-morrow. 

Anon. 

(From  Comus) 

HP  HE  star  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold 
Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold  ; 
And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream  : 
And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 
Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  east. 
Meanwhile,  welcome  joy  and  feast, 

85 


I 

Midnight  shout  and  revelry, 

Tipsy  dance  and  jollity. 

Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 

Dropping  odours,  dropping  wine. 

Rigour  now  has  gone  to  bed  ; 

And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head, 

Strict  Age  and  sour  Severity, 

With  their  grave  saws  in  slumber  lie. 

We,  that  are  of  purer  fire, 

Imitate  the  starry  quire, 

Who,  in  their  knightly  watchful  spheres, 

Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  years. 

The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny  drove, 

Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morrice  move  ; 

And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 

Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves. 

By  dimpled  brook  and  fountain  brim, 

The  wood-nymphs,  decked  with  daisies  trim, 

Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep  : 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  ? 

Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove, 

Venus  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 

Come,  let  us  our  rites  begin  ; 

'Tis  only  daylight  that  makes  sin, 

Which  these  dun  shades  will  ne'er  report. 

Hail,  goddess  of  nocturnal  sport, 
Dark-veiled  Cotytto,  to  whom  the  secret  flame 
Of  midnight  torches  burns  !  mysterious  dame, 
That  ne'er  art  called  but  when  the  dragon-womb 
Of  Stygian  darkness  spets  her  thickest  gloom, 
And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air  1 
86 


Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 

Wherein  thou  ridest  with  Hecat',  and  befriend 

Us  thy  vowed  priests,  till  utmost  end 

Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left  out 

Ere  the  babbling  eastern  scout, 

The  nice  Morn  on  the  Indian  steep, 

From  her  cabined  loophole  peep, 

And  to  the  tell-tale  Sun  descry 

Our  concealed  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground 

In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

*  *  *  * 

To  the  Ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky. 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air, 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree. 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring  : 
The  Graces  and  the  rosy  bosomed  Hours 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring. 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 
And  west-winds  with  musky  wing 
About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  Cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 


Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  shew, 
And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
— List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true — 
Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound, 
In  slumber  soft ;  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen. 
But  far  above,  in  spangled  sheen, 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche,  sweet  entranced, 
After  her  wandering  labours  long, 
Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride, 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 
Youth  and  Joy  :  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done  : 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 
Quickly  to  the  earth's  green  end, 
Where  the  bow'd  welkin  slow  doth  bend  : 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime  : 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

/.  Milton. 
88 


Letter        *o        *^x        *^        <^> 

(From  Humphry  Clinktr) 

To  DR.  LEWIS. 

DEAR  DOCTOR, — London  is  literally  new  to  me : 
new  in  its  streets,  houses,  and  even  in  its  situation  ; 
as  the  Irishman  said,  "  London  is  now  gone  out  of 
town."  What  I  left  open  fields,  producing  hay 
and  corn,  I  now  find  covered  with  streets  and 
squares,  and  palaces  and  churches.  I  am  credibly 
informed,  that,  in  the  space  of  seven  years,  eleven 
thousand  new  houses  have  been  built  in  one 
quarter  of  Westminster,  exclusive  of  what  is  daily 
added  to  other  parts  of  this  unwieldy  metropolis. 
Pimlico  and  Knightsbridge  are  now  almost  joined 
to  Chelsea  and  Kensington  ;  and  if  this  infatuation 
lasts  for  half  a  century,  I  suppose  the  whole  county 
of  Middlesex  will  be  covered  with  brick. 

It  must  be  allowed,  indeed,  for  the  credit  of  the 
present  age,  that  London  and  Westminster  are 
much  better  paved  and  lighted  than  they  were 
formerly.  The  new  streets  are  spacious,  regular, 
and  airy  :  and  the  houses  are  generally  convenient. 
The  bridge  at  Blackfriars  is  a  noble  monument  of 
taste  and  public  spirit.  I  wonder  how  they 
stumbled  upon  a  work  of  such  magnificence  and 
utility.  But,  notwithstanding  these  improvements, 
the  capital  is  now  become  an  overgrown  monster, 
which,  like  a  dropsical  head,  will  in  time  leave  the 
body  and  extremities  without  nourishment  and 
support.  The  absurdity  will  appear  in  its  full 


force  when  we  consider  that  one-sixth  part  of  the 
natives  of  this  whole  extensive  kingdom  is  crowded 
within  the  bills  of  mortality.  What  wonder  that 
our  villages  are  depopulated  and  our  farms  in 
want  of  day-labourers?  The  abolition  of  small 
farms  is  but  one  cause  of  the  decrease  of  popula- 
tion. Indeed,  the  incredible  increase  of  horses 
and  black  cattle,  to  answer  the  purposes  of  luxury, 
requires  a  prodigious  quantity  of  hay  and  grass, 
which  are  raised  and  managed  without  much 
labour ;  but  a  number  of  hands  will  always  be 
wanted  for  the  different  branches  of  agriculture, 
whether  the  farms  be  large  or  small.  The  tide  of 
luxury  has  swept  all  the  inhabitants  from  the  open 
country.  The  poorest  squire,  as  well  as  the  richest 
peer,  must  have  his  house  in  town,  and  make  a 
figure  with  an  extraordinary  number  of  domestics. 
The  ploughboys,  cowherds,  and  lower  hinds  are 
debauched  and  seduced  by  the  appearance  and 
discourse  of  those  coxcombs  in  livery,  when  they 
make  their  summer  excursions.  They  desert  their 
dirt  and  drudgery,  and  swarm  up  to  London,  in 
hopes  of  getting  into  service,  where  they  can  live 
luxuriously,  and  wear  fine  clothes,  without  being 
obliged  to  work ;  for  idleness  is  natural  to  man. 
Great  numbers  of  these,  being  disappointed  in 
their  expectation,  become  thieves  and  sharpers  ; 
and  London  being  an  immense  wilderness,  in 
which  there  is  neither  watch  nor  ward  of  any 
signification,  nor  any  order  or  police,  affords  them 
lurking-places  as  well  as  prey. 
90 


There  are  many  causes  which  contribute  to  the 
daily  increase  of  this  enormous  mass  ;  but  they 
may  be  all  resolved  into  the  grand  source  of  luxury 
and  corruption.  About  five  and  twenty  years  ago, 
very  few,  even  of  the  most  opulent  citizens  in 
London,  kept  any  equipage,  or  even  any  servants 
in  livery.  Their  tables  produced  nothing  but  plain 
boiled  and  roasted,  with  a  bottle  of  port  and  a 
tankard  of  beer.  At  present,  every  trader  in  any 
degree  of  credit,  every  broker  and  attorney,  main- 
tains a  couple  of  footmen,  a  coachman  and  postil- 
lion. He  has  his  town-house  and  his  country- 
house,  his  coach,  and  his  post-chaise.  His  wife 
and  daughters  appear  in  the  richest  stuffs,  be- 
spangled with  diamonds.  They  frequent  the  court, 
the  opera,  the  theatre  and  the  masquerade.  They 
hold  assemblies  at  their  own  houses  ;  they  make 
sumptuous  entertainments,  and  treat  with  the 
richest  wines  of  Bordeaux,  Burgundy,  and  Cham- 
pagne. The  substantial  tradesman,  who  was  wont 
to  pass  his  evenings  at  the  ale-house  for  fourpence 
halfpenny,  now  spends  three  shillings  at  the  tavern, 
while  his  wife  keeps  card-tables  at  home ;  she 
must  likewise  have  fine  clothes,  her  chaise,  or  pad, 
with  country  lodgings,  and  go  three  times  a  week 
to  public  diversions.  Every  clerk,  apprentice,  and 
even  waiter  of  tavern  and  coffee-house,  maintains 
a  gelding  by  himself,  or  in  partnership,  and  assumes 
the  air  and  apparel  of  a  petit  maitre.  The  gayest 
places  of  public  entertainment  are  filled  with 
fashionable  figures,  which,  upon  enquiry,  will  be 

91 


found  to  be  journey-men  tailors,  serving-men,  and 
Abigails,  disguised  like  their  betters. 

In  short,  there  is  no  distinction  or  subordination 
left.  The  different  departments  of  life  are  jumbled 
together.  The  hod-carrier,  the  low  mechanic,  the 
tapster,  the  publican,  the  shopkeeper,  the  petti- 
fogger, the  citizen,  the  courtier,  all  tread  on  the 
kibes  of  one  another :  actuated  by  the  demons  of 
profligacy  and  licentiousness,  they  are  seen  every- 
where, rambling,  riding,  rolling,  rushing,  jostling, 
mixing,  bouncing,  cracking,  and  crashing,  in  one 
vile  ferment  of  stupidity  and  corruption.  All  is 
tumult  and  hurry ;  one  would  imagine  they  were 
impelled  by  some  disorder  of  the  brain  that  will 
not  suffer  them  to  be  at  rest.  The  foot-passengers 
run  along  as  if  they  were  pursued  by  bailiffs.  The 
porters  and  chairmen  trot  with  their  burdens. 
People  who  keep  their  own  equipages,  drive 
through  the  streets  at  full  speed.  Even  citizens, 
physicians,  and  apothecaries,  glide  in  their  chariots 
like  lightning.  The  hackney  coachmen  make  their 
horses  smoke,  and  the  pavement  shakes  under 
them ;  and  I  have  actually  seen  a  waggon  pass 
through  Piccadilly  at  the  hand-gallop.  In  a  word, 
the  whole  nation  seems  to  be  running  out  of  their 
wits. 

The  diversions  of  the  times  are  not  ill-suited  to 
the  genius  of  this  incongruous  monster  called  the 
public.  Give  it  noise,  confusion,  glare,  and  glitter, 
it  has  no  idea  of  elegance  and  propriety.  What 
are  the  amusements  of  Ranelagh?  One  half  of 
92 


the  company  are  following  the  other's  tails  in  an 
eternal  circle ;  like  so  many  blind  asses  in  an 
olive-mill,  where  they  can  neither  discourse,  dis- 
tinguish, or  be  distinguished  ;  while  the  other  half 
are  drinking  hot  water,  under  the  denomination  of 
tea,  till  nine  or  ten  o'clock  at  night,  to  keep  them 
awake  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  As  for  the 
orchestra,  the  vocal  music  especially,  it  is  well  for 
the  performers  that  they  cannot  be  heard  distinctly. 
Vauxhall  is  a  composition  of  baubles,  overcharged 
with  paltry  ornaments,  ill-conceived  and  poorly 
executed,  without  any  unity  of  design,  or  propriety 
of  disposition.  It  is  an  unnatural  assemblage  of 
objects,  fantastically  illuminated  in  broken  masses, 
seemingly  combined  to  dazzle  the  eyes  and  divert 
the  imagination  of  the  vulgar.  Here  is  a  wooden 
lion,  there  a  stone  statue  ;  in  one  place  a  range  of 
things  like  coffee-house  boxes,  covered  at  top  ;  in 
another  a  parcel  of  ale-house  benches  ;  in  a  third, 
a  puppet-show  representation  of  a  tin  cascade  ;  in 
a  fourth,  a  gloomy  cave  of  a  circular  form,  like  a 
sepulchral  vault,  half  lighted ;  in  a  fifth,  a  scanty 
slip  of  grass  plot,  that  would  not  afford  pasture 
sufficient  for  an  ass's  colt.  The  walks  which 
nature  seems  tp  have  intended  for  solitude,  shade, 
and  silence,  are  filled  with  crowds  of  noisy  people, 
sucking  up  the  nocturnal  rheums  of  an  aguish 
climate  :  and  through  these  gay  scenes  a  few  lamps 
glimmer,  like  so  many  farthing  candles. 

When  I  see  a  number  of  well-dressed  people,  of 
both  sexes,  sitting  on  the  covered  benches,  exposed 

93 


to  the  eyes  of  the  mob,  and,  which  is  worse,  to  the 
cold  raw  night  air,  devouring  sliced  beef,  and 
swilling  port,  and  punch,  and  cyder,  I  cannot  help 
compassionating  their  temerity,  while  I  despise 
their  want  of  taste  and  decorum  ;  but  when  they 
course  along  their  damp  and  gloomy  walks,  or 
crowd  together  upon  the  wet  gravel,  without  any 
other  cover  than  the  cope  of  heaven,  listening  to 
a  song  which  one  half  of  them  cannot  possibly 
hear,  how  can  I  help  supposing  they  are  actually 
possessed  by  a  spirit  more  absurd  and  pernicious 
than  anything  we  meet  with  in  the  precincts  of 
Bedlam  ?  In  all  probability  the  proprietors  of  this, 
and  other  public  gardens  of  inferior  note,  in  the  skirts 
of  the  metropolis,  are,  in  some  shape,  connected  with 
the  faculty  of  physic,  and  the  company  of  under- 
takers :  for  considering  that  eagerness  in  the  pursuit 
of  what  is  called  pleasure  which  now  predominates 
through  every  rank  and  denomination  of  life,  I  am 
persuaded  that  more  gouts,  rheumatisms,  catarrhs 
and  consumptions,  are  caught  in  these  nocturnal 
pastimes  sub  dio  than  from  all  the  risks  and  acci- 
dents to  which  a  life  of  toil  and  danger  is  exposed. 
These,  and  other  observations  which  I  have  made 
in  this  excursion,  will  shorten  my  stay  at  London, 
and  send  me  back  with  a  double  relish  to  my 
solitude  and  mountains  ;  but  I  shall  return  by  a 
different  route  than  that  which  brought  me  to 
town.  I  have  seen  some  old  friends  who  con- 
stantly resided  in  this  virtuous  metropolis ;  but  they 
are  so  changed  in  manners  and  disposition  that 

94 


we  hardly  know  or  care  for  one  another.  In  our 
journey  from  Bath  my  sister  Tabby  provoked  me 
into  a  transport  of  passion  ;  during  which,  like  a 
man  who  has  drunk  himself  pot  valiant,  I  talked 
to  her  in  such  a  style  of  authority  and  resolution, 
as  produced  a  most  blessed  effect.  She  and  her 
dog  have  been  remarkably  quiet  and  orderly  ever 
since  this  expostulation.  How  long  this  agreeable 
calm  will  last  Heaven  above  knows.  I  flatter 
myself  the  exercise  of  travelling  has  been  of  service 
to  my  health  :  a  circumstance  which  encourages 
me  to  proceed  in  my  projected  expedition  to  the 
North.  But  I  must,  in  the  meantime,  for  the 
benefit  and  amusement  of  my  pupils,  explore  the 
depths  of  this  chaos :  this  misshapen  and  monstrous 
capital,  without  head  or  tail,  members  or  proportion. 
Yours  always, 

MATT.  BRAMBLE. 

Tobias  Smollet. 
A  Musical  Instrument        "O        *o 

"\17HAT  is  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon  fly  on  the  river  ? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river. 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

95 


And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon  fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sate  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river, 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can, 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan 

(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 
Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 
Then  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 

In  holes  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan 

(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river  !) 
"  The  only  way  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan, 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon  fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 
Q6 


Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man. 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  the  pain, — 
For  the  reed  that  grows  never  more  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 

E.  B.  Browning. 


The  Poet's  Song       ^>y       ^       <Qy 

H^HE  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 

He  pass'd  by  the  town,  and  out  of  the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild  swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey, 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have  sung  many 
songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 

Lord  Tennyson. 
H  97 


The  Country  Life        ^y        *o        ^> 
From  Hesperides) 

O  WEET  country  life,  to  such  unknown 

Whose  lives  are  others,  not  their  own  ! 
But  serving  courts  and  cities,  be 
Less  happy,  less  enjoying  thee. 
Thou  never  plough'st  the  ocean's  foam 
To  seek  and  bring  rough  pepper  home  ; 
Nor  to  the  Eastern  Ind  dost  rove 
To  bring  from  thence  the  scorched  clove ; 
Nor,  with  the  loss  of  thy  lov'd  rest, 
Bringst  home  the  ingot  from  the  West. 
No,  thy  ambition's  masterpiece 
Flies  no  thought  higher  than  a  fleece  ; 
Or  how  to  pay  thy  hinds,  and  clear 
All  scores,  and  so  to  end  the  year : 
But  walk'st  about  thine  own  dear  bounds, 
Not  envying  others'  larger  grounds  : 
For  well  thou  know'st  'tis  not  th'  extent 
Of  land  makes  life,  but  sweet  content. 
When  now  the  cock  (the  ploughman's  horn) 
Calls  forth  the  lily-wristed  morn, 
Then  to  thy  cornfields  thou  dost  go, 
Which  though  well  soyl'd,  yet  thou  dost  know 
That  the  best  compost  for  the  lands 
Is  the  wise  master's  feet  and  hands. 
There  at  the  plough  thou  find'st  thy  team 
With  a  hind  whistling  there  to  them  ; 
And  cheer'st  them  up  by  singing  how 
The  kingdom's  portion  is  the  plough. 


This  done,  then  to  th'  enamelled  meads 
Thou  go'st,  and  as  thy  foot  there  treads, 
Thou  see'st  a  present  God-like  power 
Imprinted  in  each  herb  and  flower  ; 
And  smell'st  the  breath  of  great-eyed  kine 
Sweet  as  the  blossoms  of  the  vine. 
Here  thou  behold'st  thy  large  sleek  neat 
Unto  the  dewlaps  up  in  meat  ; 
And,  as  thou  look'st,  the  wanton  steer, 
The  heifer,  cow,  and  ox  draw  near 
To  make  a  pleasing  pastime  there. 
These  seen,  thou  go'st  to  view  thy  flocks 
Of  sheep,  safe  from  the  wolf  and  fox, 
And  find'st  their  bellies  there  as  full 
Of  short  sweet  grass  as  backs  with  wool, 
And  leav'st  them,  as  they  feed  and  fill, 
A  shepherd  piping  on  a  hill. 
For  sports,  for  pageantry  and  plays 
Thou  hast  thy  eves  and  holidays  ; 
On  which  the  young  men  and  maids  meet 
To  exercise  their  dancing  feet ; 
Tripping  the  comely  country  round, 
With  daffodils  and  daisies  crowned. 
Thy  wakes,  thy  quintels  here  thou  hast, 
Thy  May-poles,  too,  with  garlands  grac'd  ; 
Thy  morris  dance,  thy  Whitsun  ale, 
Thy  shearing  feast  which  never  fail ; 
Thy  harvest  home,  thy  wassail  bowl, 
That's  toss'd  up  after  fox  i'  th'  hole  ; 
Thy  mummeries,  thy  twelvth-tide  Kings 
And  Queens,  thy  Christmas  revellings, 

99 


Thy  nut-brown  mirth,  thy  russet  wit, 

And  no  man  pays  too  dear  for  it. 

To  these  thou  hast  thy  times  to  go 

And  trace  the  hare  i'  the  treacherous  snow ; 

Thy  witty  wiles  to  draw,  and  get 

The  lark  into  the  trammel  net ; 

Thou  hast  thy  cock-rood  and  thy  glade 

To  take  the  precious  pheasant  made  ; 

The  lime-twigs,  snares  and  pit-falls  then 

To  catch  the  pilfering  birds,  not  men. 

O  happy  life  !  if  that  their  good 

The  husbandmen  but  understood  ! 

Who  all  the  day  themselves  do  please, 

And  younglings,  with  such  sports  as  these, 

And  lying  down  have  nought  t'affright 

Sweet  sleep,  that  makes  more  short  the  night. 

/?.  Herrick. 


Love's  Deity        ^>        ^x        ^y        ^> 

(From  Song s  and  Sonnets) 

T  LONG  to  talk  with  some  old  lover's  ghost, 
Who  died  before  the  god  of  love  was  born. 
I  cannot  think  that  he,  who  then  loved  most, 
Sunk  so  low  as  to  love  one  which  did  scorn. 
But  since  this  god  produced  a  destiny, 
And  that  vice-nature,  custom,  lets  it  be, 
I  must  love  her  that  loves  not  me. 
100 


Sure,  they  which  made  him  god,  meant  not  so 

much, 

Nor  he  in  his  young  godhead  practiced  it. 
But  when  an  even  flame  two  hearts  did  touch, 
His  office  was  indulgently  to  fit 
Actives  to  passives.     Correspondencey 
Only  his  subject  was  :  it  cannot  be 
Love,  till  I  love  her,  who  loves  me. 

But  every  modern  god  will  now  extend 
His  vast  prerogative  as  far  as  Jove. 
To  rage,  to  lust,  to  write  to,  to  commend, 
All  is  the  purlieu  of  the  god  of  love. 
O  !  were  we  waken'd  by  this  tyranny 
To  ungod  this  child  again,  it  could  not  be, 
I  should  love  her  who  loves  not  me. 

Rebel  and  atheist  too,  why  murmur  I, 
As  though  I  felt  the  worst  that  love  could  do  ? 
Love  may  make  me  leave  loving,  or  might  try 
A  deeper  plague,  to  make  her  love  me  too  ; 
Which,  since  she  loves  before,  I'm  loth  to  see. 
Falsehood  is  worse  than  hate  ;  and  that  must  be, 
If  she  whom  I  love,  should  love  me. 

John  Donne. 


101 


Lyric        ^Qy        "C>        ^y        *O 

(From  Book  of  Airs %  1601) 

TIpOLLOW  thy  fair  sun  !  unhappy  shadow  ! 

Though  thou  be  black  as  night, 
And  she  made  all  of  light ; 
Yet  follow  thy  fair  sun  !  unhappy  shadow  1 

Follow  her  !  whose  light  thy  light  depriveth  ; 

Though  here  thou  liv'st  disgraced, 

And  she  in  heaven  is  placed  : 

Yet  follow  her,  whose  light  the  world  reviveth  ! 

Follow  these  pure  beams  !  where  beauty  burneth, 

That  so  have  scorched  thee 

As  thou  still  black  must  be, 

Till  her  kind  beams,  thy  black  to  brightness  turneth. 

Follow  her  !  while  yet  her  glory  shineth  : 

There  comes  a  luckless  night, 

That  will  dim  all  her  light ; 

And  this,  the  black  unhappy  shade  divineth. 

Follow  still !  since  to  thy  fates  ordained, 

The  sun  must  have  his  shade, 

Till  both  at  once  do  fade  ; 

The  sun  still  proved,  the  shadow  still  disdained. 

T.  Campion. 


102 


Sonnet  xlix.        ^>        >^>        ^^ 

(From  Delia) 

C* ARE-CHARMER  Sleep!    Son  of  the  sable 
**     Night ! 

Brother  to  Death  !  In  silent  darkness  born  ! 

Relieve  my  anguish,  and  restore  the  light ! 

With  dark  forgetting  of  thy  cares  return  ! 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 

The  shipwreck  of  my  ill  adventured  youth  ! 

Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  vail  their  scorn, 

Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth  ! 
Cease  Dreams  !  th'  imagery  of  our  day  desires, 

To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow  ! 

Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars  ! 

To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 
Still  let  me  sleep  !  embracing  clouds  in  vain  ; 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

S.  Daniel. 

The  story  of  Federigo  and  the  Falcon       ^> 

From  The  Decameron^  Day  V.  Novel  9) 

rTAHERE  was  once  in  Florence  a  young  man 

called  Federigo,  son  of  Messer  Filippo  Al- 

berighi,   and  renowned   for   deeds    of  arms   and 

courtesy  over  every   other  bachelor  in  Tuscany, 

who,  as  most  gentlemen  know,  fell  in  love  with  a 

gentlewoman  named  Madonna  Giovanna,  in  her 

day  held  to  be  one  of  the  most  winsome  ladies  that 

103 


were  in  Florence :  and  to  gain  her  love,  he  held 
jousts  and  tournaments  and  made  presents  and 
spent  his  substance  without  stint ;  but  she,  being 
no  less  virtuous  than  fair,  cared  naught  for  these 
things  done  for  her,  nor  for  him  who  did  them. 
Federigo,  spending  thus  far  beyond  his  means  and 
earning  nothing,  his  goods  came  duly  to  an  end, 
so  that  naught  was  left  thereof  but  a  little  farm, 
on  the  rent  of  which  he  lived  very  poorly,  and  a 
falcon,  one  of  the  finest  in  the  world.  Wherefore, 
being  more  than  ever  enamoured,  and  rinding  that 
he  could  no  longer  live  according  to  his  taste  in 
the  city,  he  retired  to  Campi  where  his  farm  was, 
and  patiently  bore  his  poverty,  hawking  now  and 
then  and  asking  favours  of  no  man. 

After  Federigo  had  thus  been  brought  to  want,  it 
happened  that  Monna  Giovanna's  husband  fell  sick ; 
and,  seeing  that  he  was  near  death,  made  his  will, 
whereby  he  left  his  wealth,  which  was  great,  to  his 
son,  now  grown  up,  and  in  case  the  youth  should  die 
without  issue,  to  his  well-loved  wife.  After  his  death 
Monna  Giovanna,  following  the  custom  of  our 
ladies,  went  in  the  summer  time  to  a  country 
estate  of  hers  which  lay  near  that  of  Ser  Federigo. 
Now  the  youth  soon  became  acquainted  with 
Federigo  and  took  keen  delight  in  hawks  and 
hounds.  Having  seen  the  falcon  of  his  neighbour 
flown  several  times,  he  was  amazingly  delighted 
therewith  and  desired  it  for  himself,  but  he  had 
not  the  heart  to  ask  for  it,  seeing  what  store  the 
owner  set  upon  it.  The  upshot  was  that  the  youth 
104 


fell  sick,  whereupon  his  mother,  who  loved  him 
exceedingly  well,  as  she  could  love  naught  else, 
was  sorely  grieved,  tending  him  continually,  asking 
him  again  and  again  if  there  was  anything  he 
fancied,  and  assuring  him  that  if  this  thing  were 
possible  she  would  procure  it  for  him.  The  boy 
having  listened  to  her  words,  said  at  last,  "  Mother, 
if  you  could  get  for  me  Federigo's  falcon,  I  believe 
I  should  quickly  recover." 

When  the  lady  heard  this  she  fell  a-thinking,  and 
began  to  lay  her  plans.  She  knew  that  Federigo 
had  loved  her  long  and  had  never  won  even  a 
glance  of  her  eye,  wherefore  she  said  to  herself, 
"  How  can  I  go  or  send  to  him  to  ask  this  falcon, 
which  by  report  is  the  best  that  ever  flew,  and 
furthermore  is  his  only  means  of  support ;  and 
knowing  this,  how  can  I  be  so  graceless  as  to 
offer  to  rob  this  gentleman  of  his  only  remaining 
pleasure?"  She  was  perplexed  with  this  thought 
and  uncertain  what  to  say— albeit  she  was  sure  she 
might  have  the  bird  for  the  asking — and  answered 
naught  to  her  son.  But  being  overcome  at  last  by 
mother's  love,  she  determined  to  satisfy  him,  come 
what  might,  and  not  to  send  but  to  go  herself  for 
the  falcon  and  fetch  it.  Thus  she  addressed  him  : 
"  My  son,  take  courage,  and  have  a  care  to  get  well 
again,  for  I  promise  you  that  I  will  go  to-morrow 
and  bring  you  the  falcon."  Whereupon  the  youth 
was  pleased  and  straightway  grew  easier. 

The  next  morning  Madonna  Giovanni,  taking 
another  lady  as  companion,  strolled  out  to  the 

105 


cottage  of  Federigo  and  enquired  for  him.  He, 
because  the  weather  was  unfit  for  hawking,  was  at 
home  doing  some  work  in  his  garden,  and  hearing 
Monna  Giovanni's  voice  at  the  door,  hastened 
thither  in  great  joy.  When  she  saw  him  she  went 
to  meet  him  with  womanly  graciousness ;  and, 
having  answered  his  respectful  salutation  with 
"  Give  you  good-day,  Federigo,"  went  on  to  say, 
"  I  am  come  to  make  amends  for  the  pain  you 
have  suffered  through  loving  me  more  than  you 
need.  This  I  will  do  by  asking  you  to  let  me  and 
this  lady,  my  friend,  dine  with  you  this  day  in 
friendly  fashion?"  "Madonna,"  said  Federigo 
with  much  respect,  "  I  cannot  remember  to  have 
received  any  ill  at  your  hands.  I  have  rather  fared 
well,  seeing  that  any  merit  I  may  possess  has  come 
through  your  many  excellencies  and  the  love  they 
have  inspired  in  me.  And  indeed  this  welcome 
visit  of  yours — albeit  made  to  a  poverty-stricken 
house — gives  me  more  pleasure  than  would  the 
lavishing  of  all  the  money  I  have  spent  aforetime." 
With  this  speech  he  bashfully  ushered  her  into 
the  house,  and  thence  into  the  garden,  and  said, 
"Madonna,  as  there  is  no  one  else  here  save  this 
good  woman,  the  wife  of  a  labourer,  I  will  leave 
you  in  her  company  while  I  go  to  set  the  table." 

Poor  as  he  was,  Federigo  had  never  yet  felt  so 
painfully  the  strait  into  which  he  had  been  brought 
from  lack  of  the  wealth  he  had  squandered  so 
foolishly.  When  he  found  he  had  nothing  where- 
with he  might  entertain  the  lady  for  whose  sake 
106 


he  had  feasted  people  without  limit  in  the  past,  his 
trouble  came  home  to  him  ;  he  ran  hither  and 
thither  like  a  man  possessed,  cursing  his  ill  fortune, 
but  found  nothing  he  could  either  sell  or  pawn.  It 
was  now  growing  late,  and  Federigo,  wishful  as  he 
was  to  give  the  fair  lady  some  entertainment,  was 
reluctant  to  borrow  of  his  husbandman  or  of  any 
other,  and  in  this  mood  his  eye  fell  upon  the  falcon 
perched  inside  the  little  room.  Having  naught 
else  he  took  the  bird,  which  seemed  fat  and  meat 
fit  for  such  a  lady,  and  having  wrung  its  neck  he 
handed  it  over  to  his  young  servant  and  bade  her 
pluck  and  truss  it  and  roast  it  carefully  on  the  spit. 
Then  when  the  table  was  laid,  and  covered  with 
fair  white  linen  of  which  he  kept  some  store,  he 
returned  gaily  to  the  lady  in  the  garden  and  told 
her  that  dinner,  the  best  he  could  furnish,  was 
ready.  Whereupon  the  lady  and  her  friend  sat  down 
in  company  with  Federigo,  who  served  them  with 
the  utmost  care,  and,  without  knowing  what  they 
did,  ate  the  falcon. 

After  they  had  risen  from  table,  and  had  talked 
pleasantly  together  for  some  time,  the  lady,  deem- 
ing she  might  now  lay  bare  the  reason  of  her 
coming,  addressed  Federigo  in  friendly  wise : 
"  Federigo,  when  you  call  to  mind  your  carriage 
towards  me,  and  my  rigid  display  of  virtue  there- 
anent — virtue  which  you  doubtless  rate  as  cruelty — 
I  am  assured  that  you  will  marvel  at  my  presump- 
tion, after  you  have  heard  what  object  has  brought 
me  hither.  But  if  you  had  children  of  your  own, 
107 


and  knew  how  strong  is  the  love  of  a  parent,  you 
might  find  some  excuse  for  me.  You  are  childless, 
but  I  have  one,  and  must  yield  to  the  laws  which 
bind  all  mothers  ;  and  these  laws,  whose  bidding  I 
must  needs  obey,  urge  me  against  my  will,  against 
all  fair  usage  and  duty,  to  ask  you  to  give  me 
something  which  is,  I  know,  very  dear  to  you — 
and  with  good  reason,  seeing  that  your  ill  fortune 
has  left  you  no  other  pleasure  or  recreation  or 
solace.  I  mean  that  falcon  of  yours,  for  which  my 
son  has  taken  so  strong  a  fancy  that,  if  I  carry 
it  not  back  to  him,  I  fear  lest  his  sickness  should 
grow  heavier  and  farther  ill  ensue  which  may  make 
an  end  of  him.  Wherefore  I  beg  you — not  by 
your  love  towards  me,  which  lays  no  obligation  on 
you — but  by  your  own  nobility,  which  in  courteous 
deeds  has  shewn  you  superior  to  all  others — to 
grant  me  this  boon,  so  that  I  may  be  able  to  say 
that  I  have  therewith  kept  my  son  alive  and  made 
him  your  lasting  debtor." 

Federigo,  hearing  what  the  lady  asked,  and 
knowing  that  this  boon  was  beyond  his  power 
because  he  had  given  her  the  bird  to  eat,  wept 
openly  before  he  could  say  a  word  in  reply.  The 
lady  at  first  thought  he  wept  through  grief  at  hav- 
ing to  give  up  his  fair  bird,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  saying  that  this  was  not  her  desire.  But  she 
kept  silence  and  awaited  the  reply  of  Federigo, 
who,  after  weeping  awhile,  thus  answered  :  "  Ma- 
donna, since  God  has  willed  that  I  should  set  my 
love  on  you,  I  have  in  many  ways  deemed  Fortune 
108 


unkind  to  me  and  complained  of  her,  but  all  her 
plagues  have  been  as  naught  compared  with  her 
present  malice,  with  regard  to  which  I  must  ever 
hereafter  be  at  odds  with  her.  For  she  has  so 
wrought  that  now  you  are  come  to  my  poor  house — 
whereas  you  never  came  to  me  when  I  was  rich — to 
ask  of  me  a  boon.  I  cannot  grant  you  this,  and 
why  I  cannot  I  will  tell  you  briefly.  When  I 
heard  that,  of  your  kindness,  you  desired  to  dine 
with  me,  I  deemed  it  right  and  becoming,  con- 
sidering your  worth  and  noble  station,  to  honour 
your  visit  by  a  repast  rarer  than  usual,  and  taking 
thought  of  my  falcon,  which  you  now  ask  of  me, 
and  of  his  excellence,  I  deemed  him  a  dish  worthy 
of  you.  To-day  I  set  him  before  you  roasted  on  a 
trencher,  and  I  reckoned  he  was  being  used  most 
worthily ;  but  now  that  I  learn  you  would  have 
liked  him  alive,  I  am  so  heavily  grieved  I  cannot 
oblige  you  herein,  that  I  feel  I  shall  never  forgive 
myself  for  what  I  have  done."  And  to  prove  his 
words  he  shewed  the  lady  the  feathers  and  feet 
and  beak  of  the  falcon. 

When  the  lady  saw  and  heard  what  had  been 
done,  she  first  blamed  him  for  having  slain  such  a 
falcon  to  feast  any  woman,  but  in  her  heart  she 
soon  began  to  praise  his  nobility  of  soul,  which 
poverty  had  in  no  way  diminished.  Then,  being 
disappointed  of  getting  the  falcon,  and  doubting  of 
her  son's  recovery,  she  departed  and  returned  dis- 
consolate to  the  youth,  who  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  either  from  vexation  that  the  falcon  could 
109 


not  be  his  or  because  his  malady  was  mortal  from 
the  beginning,  died,  leaving  his  mother  in  the 
deepest  grief.  She,  after  spending  some  time  in 
weeping  and  bitterness,  was  pressed  by  her  brothers 
to  marry  again,  seeing  that  she  was  very  rich  and 
still  a  young  woman  ;  and  though  she  was  not 
greatly  inclined  to  this  course,  yet  when  she  was 
besought  by  many,  and  when  she  remembered  the 
virtue  of  Federigo  and  his  last  magnificent  deed 
when  he  killed  his  beautiful  falcon  for  her  enter- 
tainment, she  said  to  her  brothers  :  "If  you  would 
permit  me  I  would  sooner  be  as  I  am,  but  if  you 
will  have  me  married,  I  tell  you  that  I  will  take  no 
other  than  Federigo  degli  Alberighi."  Then  her 
brothers,  laughing  at  her,  cried  out,  "Silly  fool, 
what  are  you  talking  about  ?  How  can  you  choose 
a  man  without  a  coin  in  his  purse?"  "My 
brothers,"  she  replied,  "  I  know  what  you  say  is 
true,  but  let  me  tell  you  I  would  rather  have  a  man 
without  riches  than  riches  without  a  man." 

The  brothers  understood  her  resolution,  and  were 
at  the  same  time  satisfied  that  Federigo,  though 
poor,  was  a  man  of  great  merit.  So  they  let  her 
take  all  her  wealth  to  Federigo  as  his  wife  accord- 
ing to  her  desire  :  and  Federigo,  when  he  found 
himself  the  husband  of  such  a  charming  lady — 
one  he  had  loved  so  dearly — and  a  rich  man  as 
well,  managed  his  goods  in  wise  fashion,  and  lived 
long  with  his  wife  in  joy  and  happiness. 

Giovanni  Boccaccio. 
no 


The  Windmill        <^y        ^y        ^> 
(From  Shorter  Poems] 

n^HE  green  corn  waving  in  the  dale, 

The  ripe  grass  waving  on  the  hill : 
I  lean  across  the  paddock  pale 
And  gaze  upon  the  giddy  mill. 

Its  hurtling  sails  a  mighty  sweep 
Cut  thro'  the  air :  with  rushing  sound 
Each  strikes  in  fury  down  the  steep, 
Rattles  and  whirls  in  chase  around. 

Beside  his  sacks  the  miller  stands 
On  high  within  the  open  door  : 
A  book  and  pencil  in  his  hands, 
His  grist  and  meal  he  reckoneth  o'er. 

His  tireless  merry  slave  the  wind 

Is  busy  with  his  work  to-day  : 

From  whence  soe'er  he  comes  to  grind  ; 

He  hath  a  will  and  knows  a  way. 

He  gives  the  creaking  sails  a  spin, 
The  circling  millstones  faster  flee, 
The  shuddering  timbers  groan  within, 
And  down  the  shoots  the  meal  runs  free. 

The  miller  giveth  him  no  thanks, 
And  doth  not  much  his  work  o'erlook  : 
He  stands  beside  the  sacks,  and  ranks 
The  figures  in  his  dusty  book. 

R.  Bridges. 
ill 


The  Ballad  of  the  Dark  Ladle 

r\  LEAVE  the  lily  on  its  stem  ; 

O  leave  the  rose  upon  the  spray ; 
O  leave  the  elder  bloom,  fair  maids  ! 
And  listen  to  my  lay. 

A  cypress  and  a  myrtle  bough 
This  morn  around  my  harp  you  twined, 
Because  it  fashioned  mournfully 
Its  murmurs  in  the  wind. 

And  now  a  tale  of  love  and  woe, 
A  woeful  tale  of  love  I  sing  ; 
Hark,  gentle  maidens  !  hark  it  sighs 
And  trembles  on  the  string. 

But  most,  my  own  dear  Genevieve, 
It  sighs  and  trembles  most  for  thee  1 
O  come  and  hear  the  cruel  wrongs, 
Befel  the  Dark  Ladie  ! 


All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

112 


The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve. 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

For  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  ; 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  but  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 

Interpreted  my  own. 

I  113 


She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lonely  knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

And  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
f    In  green  and  sunny  glade — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  knight. 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ;— 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees  ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; — 
114 


His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

"5 


I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 


But  now,  once  more  a  tale  of  woe, 
A  woeful  tale  of  love  I  sing  ; 
For  thee,  my  Genevieve,  it  sighs, 
And  trembles  on  the  string. 

When  last  I  sang  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  how  he  roamed  the  mountain  woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

I  promised  thee  a  sister  tale, 
Of  man's  perfidious  cruelty  : 
Come  then  and  hear  what  cruel  wrong 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladie. 


Beneath  yon  birch  with  silver  bark, 
And  boughs  so  pendulous  and  fair, 
The  brook  falls  scattered  down  the  rock : 
And  all  is  mossy  there  ! 

And  there  upon  the  moss  she  sits, 
The  Dark  Ladie  in  silent  pain  ; 
The  heavy  tear  is  in  her  eye, 
And  drops  and  swells  again. 
116 


Three  times  she  sends  her  little  page 
Up  the  castled  mountain's  breast, 
If  he  might  find  the  knight  that  wears 
The  Griffin  for  his  crest. 

The  sun  was  sloping  down  the  sky, 
And  she  had  lingered  there  all  day, 
Counting  moments,  dreaming  fears — 
O  wherefore  can  he  stay  ? 

She  hears  a  rustling  o'er  the  brook, 
She  sees  far  off  a  swinging  bough  ! 
"'Tis  he  !     'Tis  my  betrothed  knight ! 
Lord  Falkland,  it  is  thou." 

She  springs  and  clasps  him  round  the  neck, 
She  sobs  a  thousand  hopes  and  fears, 
Her  kisses  glowing  on  his  cheeks 
She  quenches  with  her  tears. 

"  My  friends  with  rude  ungentle  words, 
They  scoff  and  bid  me  fly  to  thee. 

0  give  me  shelter  in  thy  breast ! 

O  shield  and  shelter  me  ! 

"  My  Henry,  I  have  given  thee  much. 

1  gave  what  I  can  ne'er  recall, 

I  gave  my  heart,  I  gave  my  peace, 
O  Heaven  !  I  gave  thee  all." 

The  Knight  made  answer  to  the  Maid, 
While  to  his  heart  he  held  her  hand  : 
"  Nine  castles  hath  my  noble  sire, 
None  statelier  in  the  land. 
117 


"  The  fairest  one  shall  be  my  love's, 
The  fairest  castle  of  the  nine  ! 
Wait  only  till  the  stars  peep  out, 
The  fairest  shall  be  thine  : 

"  Wait  only  till  the  hand  of  eve 
Hath  wholly  closed  yon  western  bars, 
And  through  the  dark  we  too  will  steal 
Beneath  the  twinkling  stars  ! " 

"  The  dark  ?  the  dark  ?     No  !  not  the  dark  ? 
The  twinkling  stars  ?     How,  Henry  ?     How  ? 
O  God  !  'twas  in  the  eye  of  noon 
He  pledged  his  sacred  vow  ! 

"  And  in  the  eye  of  noon,  my  love 
Shall  lead  me  from  my  mother's  door, 
Sweet  boys  and  girls  all  clothed  in  white 
Strewing  flowers  before  : 

"  But  first  the  nodding  minstrels  go 
With  music  meet  for  lordly  bow'rs, 
The  children  next  in  snow-white  vests, 
Strewing  buds  and  flow'rs  ! 

"  And  then  my  love  and  I  shall  pace, 
My  jet  black  hair  in  pearly  braids, 
Between  our  comely  bachelors 
And  blushing  bridal  maids." 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


118 


The  Poet        *^        "^        ^        ^ 

(From  Early  Poems} 

r~PHE  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 

Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good  and  ill 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 

An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay  :  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 

And  wing'd  with  flame, 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 

Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flowers, 

The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 

A  flower  all  gold, 

119 


And  bravely  furnished  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  spring 

Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 

Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd, 

Rare  sunrise  glow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning  eyes 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes, 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies  ; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 

Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 

And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 

Making  earth  wonder, 

120 


So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.     No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 

She  shook  the  world. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


Isaac  Walton        *^        ^y        ^ 
(The  Complete  Angler,  Chap.  II) 

TDUT  turn  out  of  the  way  a  little,  good  Scholer, 
towards  yonder  high  hedg :  We'l  sit  whilst 
this  showr  falls  so  gently  upon  the  teeming  earth, 
and  gives  a  sweeter  smel  to  the  lovley  flowers  that 
adorn  the  verdant  Meadows. 

Look,  under  that  broad  Beech  tree  I  sate  down 
when  I  was  last  this  way  a  fishing,  and  the  birds 
in  the  adjoining  grove  seemed  to  have  a  friendly 
contention  with  an  Echo,  whose  dead  voice 
seemed  to  live  in  a  hollow  cave,  near  to  the  brow 
of  that  Primrose  hil ;  there  I  sate  viewing  the 
Silver  streams  glide  silenty  towards  their  center, 
the  tempestuous  Sea,  yet  sometimes  opposed  by 
rugged  roots  and  pibble  stones,  which  broke  their 
waves,  and  turned  them  into  some :  and  sometimes 
viewing  the  harmless  Lambs,  some  leaping  securely 
in  the  cool  shade,  whilst  others  sported  themselves 
in  the  cheerful  Sun  ;  and  others  were  craving 
comfort  from  the  swolne  udders  of  their  bleating 
Dams.  As  I  thus  sate,  these  and  other  sighs  had 

121 


so  fully  possest  my  soul  that  I  thought  as  the  Poet 
has  happily  exprest  it : 

/  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth; 
And  possest  joyes  not  pro  mi?  din  my  birth. 

As  I  left  this  place,  and  entered  into  the  next 
field,  a  second  pleasure  entertained  me,  'twas  a 
handsome  Milk-maid,  that  had  cast  away  all  care, 
and  sang  like  a  Nightingale;  her  voice  was  good, 
and  the  Ditty  fitted  for  it ;  'twas  that  smooth 
Song  which  was  made  by  Kit  Marlow^  now  at  least 
fifty  years  ago ;  and  the  Milk-maid's  mother  sang 
an  answer  to  it,  which  was  made  by  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  in  his  younger  dayes. 

They  were  old  fashioned  poetry  but  choicely 
good,  I  think  much  better  then  that  now  in  fashion 
in  this  Critical  age.  Look  yonder,  on  my  word, 
yonder  they  be  both  a  milking  again  :  I  wil  give 
her  the  Chub  and  perswade  them  to  sing  those 
two  songs  to  us. 

Pise.  God  speed,  griod  woman,  I  have  been  a 
fishing,  and  am  going  to  Bleak  Hall  to  my  bed, 
and  having  caught  more  fish  than  wil  sup  myself 
and  friend,  wil  bestow  this  upon  you  and  your 
daughter,  for  I  use  to  sel  none. 

Milkuv.  Marry,  God  requite  you,  Sir,  and  we'l 
eat  it  cheerfully :  wil  you  drink  a  draught  of  red 
Cow's  milk  ? 

Pise.  No,  I  thank  you :  but  I  pray  do  us  a 
courtesie  that  shal  stand  you  and  your  daughter  in 
nothing,  and  we  wil  think  ourselves  stil  something 

122 


in  your  debt ;  it  is  but  to  sing  us  a  song,  that  was 
sung  by  you  and  your  daughter,  when  I  last  past 
over  this  Meadow,  about  eight  or  nine  dayes  since. 

Milk.  What  song  was  it,  I  pray?  was  it  Come 
Shepherds  deck  your  heads:  or  As  at  noon  Dulcina 
rested:  or  Phillida  flouts  me  f 

Pise.  No  it  is  none  of  those  :  it  is  a  Song  that 
your  daughter  sung  the  first  part,  and  you  sung  the 
answer  to  it. 

Milk.  O  I  know  it  now,  I  learn'd  the  first  part  in 
my  golden  age,  when  I  was  about  the  age  of  my 
daughter  ;  and  the  later  part,  which  indeed  fits  me 
best,  but  two  or  three  years  ago :  you  shal,  God 
willing,  hear  them  both.  Come  Maudlin,  sing  the 
first  part  to  the  Gentlemen  with  a  merrie  heart,  and 
He  sing  the  second. 

The  Milkmaid^s  Song. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  vallies,  groves,  or  hils,  or  fields, 
Or  woods  and  steepie  mountains  yields. 

Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  Rocks, 
And  see  the  Shepherds  feed  our  flocks, 
By  Shallow  Rivers,  to  where  falls 
Mellodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  wil  make  thee  beds  of  Roses, 
And  then  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  Cap  of  flowers  and  a  Kirtle, 
Imbroidered  all  with  leaves  of  Mirtle. 
123 


A  Gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  Lambs  we  pull, 
Slippers  lin'd  choicely  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivie  buds, 
With  Coral  clasps,  and  Amber  studs  : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

The  Shepherds  Swains  shal  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning  : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  Love. 

Via.  Trust  me  Master,  it  is  a  choice  Song,  and 
sweetly  sung  by  honest  Maudlin :  Pie  bestow  Sir 
Thomas  Overbuys  milkmaid's  wish  upon  her. 
That  she  may  die  in  the  Spring,  and  have  good 
store  of  flowers  stuck  round  about  her  winding 
sheet. 

The  Milkmaid }s  mother's  answer. 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherds  tongue  ? 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move, 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold  : 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold. 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 
And  Rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 
124 


The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  Winter  reckoning  yeilds. 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancies  spring,  but  sorrows  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shooes,  thy  beds  of  Roses, 
Thy  Cap,  thy  Kirtle,  and  thy  Posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  I  vie  buds, 
Thy  Coral  clasps  and  Amber  studs, 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  Love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joyes  no  date,  nor  age  no  need  : 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Pise.  Wei  sung,  good  woman,  I  thank  you,  PI 
give  you  another  dish  of  fish  one  of  these  dayes, 
and  then  beg  another  Song  of  you.  Come,  Scholer, 
let  Maudlin  alone,  do  not  you  offer  to  spoil  her 
voice.  Look  yonder  comes  my  Hostis  to  cal  us  to 
supper.  How  now  ?  is  my  brother  Peter  come  ? 

Host.  Yes,  and  a  friend  with  him,  they  are  both 
glad  to  hear  you  are  in  these  parts,  and  long  to 
see  you,  and  are  hungry,  and  long  to  be  at  Supper. 

Isaac  Walton. 
125 


Summer  Tempest        "v>        ^>        *^y 

(From  Shorter  Poems] 

HTHE  summer  trees  are  tempest  torn, 

The  hills  are  wrapped  in  a  mantle  wide 
Of  folding  rain  by  the  mad  wind  borne 
Across  the  country  side. 

His  scourge  of  fury  is  lashing  down 
The  delicate-ranked  golden  corn, 
That  never  more  shall  rear  its  crown 
And  curtsey  to  the  morn. 

There  shews  no  care  in  heaven  to  save 
Man's  pitiful  patience,  or  provide 
A  season  for  the  season's  slave, 

Whose  trust  hath  toiled  and  died. 

So  my  proud  spirit  is  in  me  sad, 
A  wreck  of  fairer  fields  to  mourn, 
The  ruin  of  golden  hopes  she  had, 
My  delicate-ranked  corn. 

R.  Bridges. 

A  Dedication        -Oy        *^y        <<cy 

(From  AiUs  d'Alouctte) 

\  OT  of  his  treasures  gives  the  sea, 


N< 


Not  gold  or  jewels  to  the  land, 
Nor  of  all  precious  things  that  he 

Has  ravished  with  his  robber  hand. 
With  worthless  weeds  he  wreathes  her  o'er, 
With  shells  unvalued  lines  the  shore. 
126 


Ev'n  so  his  reverent  love  he  shews 

By  giving  not  his  costless  pelf, 
But  that  which  of  his  being  grows, 

True  gift  it  is  to  give  of  self. 
For  my  poor  gift  let  this  atone  : 
I  give  thee  what  is  most  my  own. 

F.  W.  Bourdillon. 

Sonnets        -Qy        «^        -^        *o 
(From  Delia) 

T   O  O  K,  D  elia !  how  we  'steem  the  half-blown  rose, 

•^  (The  image  of  thy  blush  and  summer's  honour) 
Whilst,  in  her  tender  green,  she  doth  inclose 
The  pure  sweet  beauty  Time  bestows  upon  her ! 

No  sooner  spreads  her  glory  in  the  air, 
But  straight  her  full-blown  pride  is  in  declining ; 
She  then  is  scorned,  that  late  adorned  the  fair, 
So  clouds  thy  beauty,  after  fairest  shining  ! 

No  April  can  revive  thy  withered  flowers, 
Whose  blooming  grace  adorns  thy  glory  now  ! 
Swift  speedy  Time,  feathered  with  flying  hours, 
Dissolves  the  beauty  of  the  fairest  brow. 

O  let  not  then  such  riches  waste  in  vain  ! 

But  love  !  whilst  that  thou  may'st  be  loved  again  ! 

But  love  !  whilst  that  thou  may'st  be  loved  again  ! 
Now,  whilst  thy  May  hath  filled  thy  lap  with 

flowers  ! 

Now,  whilst  thy  beauty  bears  without  a  stain  ! 
Now  use  thy  summer  smiles,  ere  Winter  lowers  ! 
127 


And  whilst  thou  spread's!  unto  the  rising  sun, 
The  fairest  flower  that  ever  saw  the  light ; 
Now  joy  thy  time,  before  thy  sweet  be  done  ! 
And,  DELIA  !  think  thy  morning  must  have  night  1 

And  that  thy  brightness  sets  at  length  to  West  ; 
When  thou  will  close  up  that  which  now  thou 

showest ! 

And  think  the  same  becomes  thy  fading  best, 
Which,  then,  shall  hide  it  most,  and  cover  lowest. 

Men  do  not  weigh  the  stalk,  for  that  it  was  ; 

When  once  they  find  her  flower,  her  glory  pass. 

When  men  shall  find  thy  flower,  thy  glory  pass : 
And  thou,  with  careful  brow,  sitting  alone, 
Received  hast  this  message,  from  thy  glass  : 
That  tells  the  truth  and  says  that  "  All  is  gone  ! M 

Fresh  shalt  thou  see  in  me,  the  wounds  thou  madest ; 
Though  spent  thy  flame,  in  me  the  heat  remaining. 
I  that  have  loved  thee  thus  before  thou  fadest, 
My  faith  shall  wax,  when  thou  art  in  thy  waning  1 

The  world  shall  find  this  miracle  in  me, 

That  fire  can  burn,  when  all  the  matter's  spent. 
Then  what  my  faith  hath  been,  thyself  shall  see ! 
And  that  thou  wast  unkind,  thou  may'st  repent ! 

Thou  may'st  repent,  when  thou  hast  scorned  my  tears, 

When  Winter  snows  upon  thy  golden  hairs. 

When  Winter  snows  upon  thy  golden  hairs, 

And  frost  of  Age  hath  nipped  thy  flowers  near  ; 
When  dark  shall  seem  thy  day,  that  never  clears, 
And  all  lies  withered  that  was  held  so  dear : 
128 


Then  take  this  picture,  which  I  here  present  thee  ! 
Limned  with  a  pencil,  not  all  unworthy, 
Here,  see  the  gifts  that  God  and  Nature  lent  thee ! 
Here,  read  thyself  and  what  I  suffered  for  thee  ! 

This  may  remain  thy  lasting  monument, 
Which,  happily,  posterity  may  cherish  : 
These  colours,  with  thy  fading  are  not  spent ; 
These  may  remain,  when  thou  and  I  shall  perish. 

If  they  remain,  then  thou  shalt  live  thereby  ! 

They  will  remain,  and  so  thou  cans't  not  die. 

S.  Daniel. 


Reflections  on  Death        *o        ^y        ^> 

(From  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater] 

T  HAVE  had  occasion  to  remark,  at  various 
periods  of  my  life,  that  the  deaths  of  those 
whom  we  love,  and  indeed  the  contemplation  of 
death  generally,  is  (cceteris  paribus)  more  affecting 
in  summer  than  in  any  other  season  of  the  year. 
And  the  reasons  are  these  three,  I  think :  first, 
that  the  visible  heavens  in  summer  appear  far 
higher,  more  distant,  and  (if  such  a  solecism  may 
be  excused)  more  infinite ;  the  clouds,  by  which 
chiefly  the  eye  expounds  the  distance  of  the  blue 
pavilion  stretched  over  our  heads,  are  in  summer 
more  voluminous,  massed,  and  accumulated  in  far 
grander  and  more  towering  piles  ;  secondly,  the 
light  and  the  appearances  of  the  declining  and  the 
setting  sun  are  much  more  fitted  to  be  types  and 
K  129 


characters  of  the  Infinite  ;  and,  thirdly,  which  is 
the  main  reason,  the  exuberant  and  riotous  prodi- 
gality of  life  naturally  forces  the  mind  more  power- 
fully upon  the  antagonist  thought  of  death,  and  the 
wintry  sterility  of  the  grave.  For  it  may  be  ob- 
served generally,  that  wherever  two  thoughts  stand 
related  to  each  other  by  a  law  of  antagonism,  and 
exist,  as  it  were,  by  mutual  repulsion,  they  are  apt 
to  suggest  each  other.  On  these  accounts  it  is 
that  I  find  it  impossible  to  banish  the  thought  of 
death  when  I  am  walking  alone  in  the  endless  days 
of  summer :  and  any  particular  death,  if  not  more 
affecting,  at  least  haunts  my  mind  more  obstinately 
and  besiegingly  in  that  season.  Perhaps  this 
cause,  and  a  slight  incident  which  I  omit  might 
have  been  the  immediate  occasions  of  the  following 
dream  ;  to  which,  however,  a  predisposition  must 
always  have  existed  in  my  mind  ;  but  having  been 
once  roused,  it  never  left  me,  and  split  into  a 
thousand  fantastic  varieties,  which  often  suddenly 
reunited  and  composed  again  the  original  dream. 

I  thought  that  it  was  a  Sunday  morning  in  May, 
that  it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  as  yet  very  early 
in  the  morning.  I  was  standing,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  at  the  door  of  my  own  cottage.  Right  before 
me  lay  the  very  scene  which  could  really  be 
commanded  from  that  situation,  but  exalted,  as 
was  usual,  and  solemnized  by  the  power  of  dreams. 
There  were  the  same  mountains,  and  the  same 
lovely  valley  at  their  feet  ;  but  the  mountains  were 
raised  to  more  than  Alpine  height,  and  there  was 
130 


interspace  far  larger  between  them  of  meadows 
and  forest  lawns  ;  the  hedges  were  rich  with  white 
roses ;  and  no  living  creature  was  to  be  seen,  except- 
ing that  in  the  green  churchyard  there  were  cattle 
tranquilly  reposing  upon  the  verdant  graves,  and 
particularly  round  about  the  grave  of  a  child  whom 
I  had  tenderly  loved,  just  as  I  had  really  beheld 
them,  a  little  before  sunrise  in  the  same  summer, 
when  that  child  died.  I  gazed  upon  the  well- 
known  scene,  and  I  said  aloud  (as  I  thought)  to 
myself:  "It  yet  wants  much  of  sun-rise;  and  it 
is  Easter  Sunday  ;  and  that  is  the  day  on  which 
they  celebrate  the  first-fruits  of  resurrection.  I 
will  walk  abroad  :  old  griefs  shall  be  forgotten 
to-day ;  for  the  air  is  cool  and  still,  and  the  hills 
are  high,  and  stretch  away  to  heaven  ;  and  the 
forest  glades  are  as  quiet  as  the  churchyard  ;  and 
with  the  dew  I  can  wash  the  fever  from  my 
forehead,  and  then  I  shall  be  unhappy  no  longer." 
I  turned  as  if  to  open  my  garden  gate :  and 
immediately  I  saw  upon  the  left  a  scene  far 
different ;  but  which  yet  the  power  of  dreams  had 
reconciled  into  harmony  with  the  other.  The 
scene  was  an  Oriental  one ;  and  there  also  it  was 
Easter  Sunday,  and  very  early  in  the  morning. 
And  at  a  vast  distance  were  visible,  as  a  stain 
upon  the  horizon,  the  domes  and  cupolas  of  a 
great  city — an  image  or  faint  abstraction,  caught 
perhaps  in  childhood  from  some  picture  of  Jeru- 
salem. And  not  a  bow-shot  from  me,  upon  a 
stone,  and  shaded  by  Judean  palms,  there  sat  a 


woman  ;  and  I  looked ;  and  it  was — Ann  !  She 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  me  earnestly :  and  I  said  to 
her  at  length  :  "  So  then  I  have  found  you  at  last." 
I  waited  :  but  she  answered  me  not  a  word.  Her 
face  was  the  same  as  when  I  saw  it  last,  and  yet 
again  how  different !  Seventeen  years  ago,  when 
the  lamplight  fell  upon  her  face,  as  for  the  last 
time  I  kissed  her  lips  (lips,  Ann,  that  to  me  were 
not  polluted),  her  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears  : 
the  tears  were  now  wiped  away  ;  she  seemed  more 
beautiful  than  she  was  at  that  time,  but  in  all  other 
points  the  same,  and  not  older.  Her  looks  were 
tranquil,  but  with  unusual  solemnity  of  expression : 
and  I  now  gazed  upon  her  with  some  awe  ;  but 
suddenly  her  countenance  grew  dim,  and,  turning 
to  the  mountains,  I  perceived  vapours  rolling 
between  us  :  in  a  moment,  all  had  vanished  ;  thick 
darkness  came  on,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
I  was  far  away  from  mountains,  and  by  lamplight 
in  Oxford  Street,  walking  again  with  Ann — just  as 
we  had  walked  seventeen  years  before,  when  we 
were  both  children. 

Thomas  de  Quincey. 

Jack  and  Joan        -^        *s>        "Qy 
(From  Two  Books  of  Airs,  1613) 

TACK  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill, 
J      But  loving  live,  and  merry  still : 
Do  their  week-day's  work,  and  pray 
Devoutly  on  the  holy  day  : 

132 


Skip  and  trip  it  on  the  green, 

And  help  to  choose  the  summer  Queen : 

Lash  out  at  a  country  feast 

Their  silver  penny  with  the  best. 

Well  can  they  judge  of  nappy  ale, 

And  tell  at  large  a  winter's  tale  ; 

Climb  up  to  the  apple  loft, 

And  turn  the  crabs  till  they  be  soft. 

Tib  is  all  the  father's  joy, 

And  little  Tom  the  mother's  boy. 

All  their  pleasure  is  Content : 

And  care  to  pay  their  yearly  rent. 

Joan  can  call  by  name  her  cows, 
And  deck  her  windows  with  green  boughs  ; 
She  can  wreaths  and  tutties  make, 
And  trim  with  plums  a  bridal  cake. 
Jack  knows  what  brings  gain  or  loss, 
And  his  long  flail  can  stoutly  toss  : 
Makes  the  hedge  which  others  break, 
And  ever  thinks  what  he  doth  speak. 

Now  you  courtly  dames  and  knights, 
That  study  only  strange  delights  ; 
Though  you  scorn  the  homespun  gray 
And  revel  in  your  rich  array  ; 
Though  your  tongues  dissemble  deep, 
And  can  your  heads  from  danger  keep  ; 
Yet,  for  all  your  pomp  and  train, 
Securer  lives  the  silly  swain. 

Thomas  Campion. 

133 


Song  of  a  Maid  whose  love  is  dead        *^y 
(From  Poems  of  1851) 

ERRY,  merry  little  stream, 
Tell  me,  hast  thou  seen  my  dear  ? 
I  left  him  with  an  azure  dream, 
Calmly  sleeping  on  his  bier — 
But  he  has  fled  ! 

"  I  passed  him  in  his  churchyard  bed — 
A  yew  is  sighing  o'er  his  head, 
And  grass-roots  mingle  with  his  hair." 

What  doth  he  there  ? 
O  cruel !  can  he  lie  alone  ? 

Or  in  the  arms  of  one  more  dear  ? 
Or  hides  he  in  that  bower  of  stone, 

To  cause  and  kiss  away  my  fear  ? 

"  He  doth  not  speak,  he  doth  not  moan — 
Blind,  motionless  he  lies  alone  ; 
But,  ere  the  grave  snake  fleshed  his  sting, 
This  one  warm  tear  he  bade  me  bring 

And  lay  it  at  thy  feet 

Among  the  daisies  sweet." 

Moonlight  whisperer,  summer  air, 

Songster  of  the  groves  above, 
Tell  the  maiden  rose  I  wear, 

Whether  thou  hast  seen  my  love. 
"This  night  in  heaven  I  saw  him  lie, 
Discontented  with  his  bliss  ; 
And  on  my  lips  he  left  this  kiss, 
For  thee  to  taste  and  then  to  die." 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 
134 


Great  God  Pan        ^>        ^>        -^» 

(From  Ths  Faithful  Shepherdess) 

C  ING  his  praises  that  doth  keep 

Our  flocks  from  harm, 
Pan,  the  father  of  our  sheep  ; 

And  arm  in  arm 
Tread  we  softly  in  a  round, 
Whilst  the  hollow  neighbouring  ground 
Fills  the  music  with  her  sound. 

Pan,  oh  great  god  Pan,  to  thee 

Thus  do  we  sing  ! 
Thou  that  keep'st  us  chaste  and  free 

As  the  young  spring  ; 
Ever  be  thy  honour  spoke, 
From  the  place  the  morn  is  broke, 
To  that  place  day  doth  unyoke. 

/.  Fletcher. 

Last  Night        ^y        *o        "O        *^> 

T  SAT  with  one  I  love  last  night, 
She  sang  to  me  an  olden  strain  ; 

In  former  times  it  woke  delight, 
Last  night — but  pain. 

Last  night  we  saw  the  stars  arise, 
But  clouds  soon  dimm'd  the  ether  blue  : 
And  when  we  sought  each  other's  eyes 
Tears  dimm'd  them  too  ! 

135 


We  paced  alone  our  fav'rite  walk, 
But  paced  in  silence  broken-hearted  ; 
Of  old  we  used  to  smile  and  talk, 
Last  night — we  parted. 

George  Darley. 

To  Chloris        ^y        ^y        «^x        *^y 

17  ARE  WELL,  my  sweet,  until  I  come, 

Improved  in  merit,  for  thy  sake, 
With  characters  of  honour,  home, 
Such  as  thou  canst  not  then  but  take. 

To  loyalty  my  love  must  bow, 

My  honour  too  calls  to  the  field, 
When,  for  a  lady's  busk,  I  now 

Must  keen  and  sturdy  iron  wield. 

Yet  when  I  rush  into  those  arms, 
Where  death  and  danger  do  combine, 

I  shall  less  subject  be  to  harms, 
Than  to  these  killing  eyes  of  thine. 

Since  I  could  live  in  thy  disdain, 

Thou  art  so  far  become  my  fate, 
That  I  by  nothing  can  be  slain, 

Until  thy  sentence  speaks  my  date. 

But  if  I  seem  to  fall  in  war, 

T'  excuse  the  murder  you  commit, 
Be  to  my  memory  just,  so  far 

As  in  thy  heart  t'  acknowledge  it. 

136 


That's  all  I  ask,  which  thou  must  give 

To  him  that,  dying,  takes  a  pride 
It  is  for  thee  ;  that  would  not  live 

Sole  prince  of  all  the  world  beside. 

C.  Cotton. 

Princess  Cinderella        *£y        ^>        *^> 
(From  Prince  Otto) 

^HE  Princess  scaled  the  long  garden,  skimming 
like  a  bird  the  starlit  stairways  :  crossed  the 
Park,  which  was  in  that  place  narrow  ;  and  plunged 
upon  the  farther  side  into  the  rude  shelter  of  the 
forest.  So,  at  a  bound,  she  left  the  discretion  and 
the  cheerful  lamps  of  Palace  evenings ;  ceased 
utterly  to  be  a  sovereign  lady ;  and,  falling  from 
the  whole  height  of  civilization,  ran  forth  into  the 
woods,  a  ragged  Cinderella. 

She  went  direct  before  her  through  an  open 
tract  of  the  forest,  full  of  brush  and  birches,  and 
where  the  starlight  guided  her ;  and  beyond  that 
again,  must  thread  the  columned  blackness  of  a 
pine  grove  joining  overhead  the  thatch  of  its  long 
branches.  At  that  hour  the  place  was  breathless  : 
a  horror  of  night  like  a  presence  occupied  that 
dungeon  of  the  wood  ;  and  she  went  groping, 
knocking  against  the  boles  —  her  ear,  between 
whiles,  strained  to  aching  and  yet  unrewarded. 

But  the  slope  of  the  ground  was  upward,  and 
encouraged  her  ;  and  presently  she  issued  on  a 
rocky  hill  that  stood  forth  above  the  sea  of  forest. 
All  around  were  other  hill  tops,  big  and  little : 

J37 


sable  vales  of  forest  between  ;  overhead  the  open 
heaven  and  the  brilliancy  of  countless  stars  ;  and 
along  the  western  sky  the  dim  forms  of  mountains. 
The  glory  of  the  great  night  laid  hold  upon  her : 
her  eyes  shone  with  stars  ;  she  dipped  her  sight 
into  the  coolness  and  brightness  of  the  sky,  as  she 
might  have  dipped  her  wrist  into  a  spring :  and 
her  heart,  at  that  ethereal  shock,  began  to  move 
more  soberly.  The  sun  that  sails  overhead, 
ploughing  into  gold  the  fields  of  daylight  azure 
and  uttering  the  signal  to  man's  myriads,  has  no 
word  apart  for  man  the  individual ;  and  the  moon, 
like  a  violin,  only  praises  and  laments  our  private 
destiny.  The  stars  above,  cheerful  whisperers, 
confer  quietly  with  each  of  us  like  friends  ;  they 
give  ear  to  our  sorrows  smilingly,  like  wise  old 
men,  rich  in  tolerance  ;  and  by  their  double  scale, 
so  small  to  the  eye,  so  vast  to  the  imagination, 
they  keep  before  the  mind  the  double  character  of 
man's  nature  and  fate. 

There  sate  the  Princess,  beautifully  looking  upon 
beauty,  in  council  with  these  glad  advisers. 
Brightlike  pictures,  clear  like  a  voice  in  the 
porches  of  her  ear,  memory  re-enacted  the  tumult 
of  the  evening.  She  looked  towards  Mittwalden  ; 
and  above  the  hill-top,  which  already  hid  it  from 
her  view,  a  throbbing  redness  hinted  of  fire. 
Better  so  :  better  so,  that  she  should  fall  with 
tragic  greatness,  lit  by  a  burning  palace  !  She 
felt  not  a  trace  of  pity  for  Gondremark  or  of  con- 
cern for  Griinewald  :  that  period  of  her  life  was 

138 


closed  for  ever,  a  wrench  of  wounded  vanity  alone 
surviving.  She  had  but  one  clear  idea  :  to  flee — 
and  another,  obscure  and  half- rejected,  although 
still  obeyed  :  to  flee  in  the  direction  of  the  Felsen- 
burg.  She  had  a  duty  to  perform,  she  must  free 
Otto — so  her  mind  said,  very  coldly ;  but  her 
heart  embraced  the  notion  of  that  duty  even  with 
ardour,  and  her  hands  began  to  yearn  for  the 
grasp  of  kindness. 

She  rose  with  a  start  of  recollection,  and 
plunged  down  the  slope  into  the  covert.  The 
woods  received  and  closed  upon  her.  Once  more 
she  wandered  and  hasted  in  a  blot,  uncheered, 
unpiloted.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  through  rents 
in  the  wood  roof,  a  glimmer  attracted  her ;  here 
and  there,  a  tree  stood  out  among  its  neighbours 
by  some  force  of  outline  ;  here  and  there,  a  brush- 
ing among  the  leaves,  a  notable  blackness,  a  dim 
shine,  relieved,  only  to  exaggerate,  the  solemn 
oppression  of  the  night  and  silence.  And  between 
whiles,  the  unfeatured  darkness  would  redouble 
and  the  whole  ear  of  night  appear  to  be  gloating 
on  her  steps.  Now  she  would  stand  still,  and  the 
silence  would  grow  and  grow,  till  it  weighed  upon 
her  breathing  ;  and  then  she  would  address  herself 
again  to  run,  stumbling,  falling,  and  still  hurry- 
ing the  more.  And  presently  the  whole  wood 
rocked  and  began  to  run  along  with  her.  The 
voice  of  her  own  mad  passage  through  the  silence 
spread  and  echoed,  and  filled  the  night  with  terror. 
Panic  hunted  her :  Panic  from  the  trees  reached 

139 


forth  with  clutching  branches ;  the  darkness  was 
lit  up  and  peopled  with  strange  forms  and  faces. 
She  strangled  and  fled  before  her  fears.  And  yet 
in  the  last  fortress,  reason,  blown  upon  by  these 
gusts  of  terror,  still  shone  with  a  troubled  light. 
She  knew,  yet  could  not  act  upon  her  knowledge  ; 
she  knew  that  she  must  stop,  and  yet  she  still  ran. 
She  was  already  near  madness,  when  she  broke 
suddenly  into  a  narrow  clearing.  At  the  same 
time  the  din  grew  louder,  and  she  became  conscious 
of  vague  forms  and  fields  of  whiteness.  And  with 
that  the  earth  gave  way ;  she  fell  and  found  her 
feet  again  with  an  incredible  shock  to  her  senses, 
and  her  mind  was  swallowed  up. 

When  she  came  again  to  herself,  she  was  standing 
to  the  mid-leg  in  an  icy  eddy  of  a  brook,  and 
leaning  with  one  hand  on  the  rock  from  which  it 
poured.  The  spray  had  wet  her  hair.  She  saw 
the  white  cascade,  the  stars  wavering  in  the  shaken 
pool,  foam  flitting,  and  high  overhead  the  tall 
pines  on  either  side  serenely  drinking  starshine  : 
and  in  the  sudden  quiet  of  her  spirit,  she  heard  with 
joy  the  firm  plunge  of  the  cataract  in  the  pool.  She 
scrambled  forth  dripping.  In  the  face  of  her 
proved  weakness,  to  adventure  again  upon  the 
horror  of  blackness  in  the  groves  were  a  suicide  of 
life  or  reason.  But  here,  in  the  alley  of  the  brook, 
with  the  kind  stars  above  her,  and  the  moon 
presently  swimming  into  sight,  she  could  await 
the  coming  of  day  without  alarm. 

This  lane  of  pine  trees  ran  very  rapidly  down 
140 


hill  and  wound  among  the  woods  ;  but  it  was  a 
wider  thoroughfare  than  the  brook  needed,  and 
here  and  there  were  little  dimpling  lawns  and 
coves  of  the  forest,  where  the  starshine  slumbered. 
Such  a  lawn  she  paced,  taking  patience  bravely  ; 
and  now  she  looked  up  the  hill  and  saw  the  brook 
coming  down  to  her  in  a  series  of  cascades  ;  and 
now  approached  the  margin,  where  it  welled 
among  the  rushes  silently  :  and  now  gazed  at  the 
great  company  of  heaven  with  an  enduring  wonder. 
The  early  evening  had  fallen  chill,  but  the  night 
was  now  temperate ;  out  of  the  recesses  of  the 
wood  there  came  mild  airs  as  from  a  deep  and 
peaceful  breathing  ;  and  the  dew  was  heavy  on  the 
grass  and  the  tight-shut  daisies.  This  was  the 
girl's  first  night  under  the  naked  heaven ;  and 
now  that  her  fears  were  overpast,  she  was  touched 
to  the  soul  by  its  serene  amenity  and  peace. 
Kindly  the  host  of  heaven  blinked  down  upon  that 
wandering  Princess  :  and  the  honest  brook  had  no 
words  but  to  encourage  her. 

At  last  she  began  to  be  aware  of  a  wonderful  re  volu- 
tion, compared  to  which  the  fire  of  Mittwalden  Palace 
was  but  the  crack  and  flash  of  a  percussion  cap .  The 
countenance  with  which  the  pines  regarded  her  be- 
gan insensibly  to  change  ;  the  grass  too,  short  as  it 
was,  and  the  whole  winding  staircase  of  the  brook's 
course,  began  to  wear  a  solemn  freshness  of  ap- 
pearance. And  this  slow  transfiguration  reached 
her  heart,  and  played  upon  it,  and  transpierced  it 
with  a  serious  thrill.  She  looked  all  about ;  the 
141 


whole  face  of  nature  looked  back  brimful  of 
meaning,  finger  on  lip,  leaking  its  glad  secret. 
She  looked  up.  Heaven  was  almost  emptied  of 
stars.  Such  as  still  lingered  shone  with  a  changed 
and  waning  brightness,  and  began  to  faint  in  their 
stations.  And  the  colour  of  the  sky  itself  was  the 
most  wonderful :  for  the  rich  blue  of  the  night  had 
now  melted  and  softened  and  brightened ;  and 
there  had  succeeded  in  its  place  a  hue  that  has  no 
name,  and  that  is  never  even  seen  but  as  the 
herald  of  morning.  "  O  !  "  she  cried,  joy  catching 
at  her  voice,  "  O  !  it  is  the  dawn  ! " 

In  a  breath  she  passed  over  the  brook,  and 
looped  up  her  skirts  and  fairly  ran  in  the  dim 
alleys.  As  she  ran  her  ears  were  aware  of  many 
pipings  more  beautiful  than  music  :  in  the  small 
dish-shaped  houses  in  the  fork  of  giant  arms, 
where  they  had  lain  all  night,  lover  by  lover, 
warmly  pressed,  the  bright -eyed,  big-hearted 
singers  began  to  awaken  for  the  day.  Her  heart 
swelled  and  flowed  forth  to  them  in  kindness. 
And  they,  from  their  small  and  high  perches  in 
the  clere-stories  of  the  wood  cathedral,  peered 
sidelong  at  the  ragged  Princess  as  she  flitted 
below  them  on  the  carpet  of  moss  and  tassel. 

Soon  she  had  struggled  to  a  certain  hill-top,  and 
saw  before  her  the  silent  inflooding  of  the  day.  Out 
of  the  East  it  welled  and  whitened  ;  the  darkness 
trembled  into  light,  and  the  stars  were  extinguished 
like  the  street  lamps  of  a  human  city.  The 
whiteness  brightened  into  silver,  the  silver  warmed 
142 


into  gold,  and  the  gold  kindled  into  pure  and 
living  fire ;  and  the  face  of  the  East  was  barred 
with  elemental  scarlet.  The  day  drew  its  first 
long  breath,  steady  and  chill ;  and  for  leagues 
around  the  woods  sighed  and  shivered.  And  then 
at  one  bound,  the  sun  had  floated  up ;  and  her 
startled  eyes  received  day's  first  arrow,  and  quailed 
under  the  buffet.  On  every  side,  the  shadows 
leaped  from  their  ambush  and  fell  prone.  The 
day  was  come,  plain  and  garish ;  and  up  the  steep  and 
solitary  eastern  heaven  the  sun,  victorious  over  his 
competitors,  continued  slowly  and  royally  to  mount. 
Seraphina  drooped  for  a  little,  leaning  on  a  pine, 
the  shrill  joy  of  the  woodlands  mocking  her.  The 
shelter  of  the  night,  the  thrilling  and  joyous 
changes  of  the  dawn,  were  over ;  and  now,  in  the 
hot  eye  of  the  day,  she  turned  uneasily  and  looked 
sighingly  about  her.  Some  way  off  among  the 
lower  woods,  a  pillar  of  smoke  was  mounting 
and  melting  in  the  gold  and  blue.  There,  surely 
enough,  were  human  folk,  the  hearth  surrounders. 
Man's  fingers  had  laid  the  twigs  ;  it  was  man's 
breath  that  had  quickened  and  encouraged  the 
baby  flames  ;  and  now,  as  the  fire  caught,  it  would 
be  playing  ruddily  on  the  face  of  its  creator.  At 
the  thought,  she  felt  a-cold  and  little  and  lost  in 
that  great  out-of-doors.  The  electric  shock  of  the 
young  sunbeams  and  the  unhuman  beauty  of  the 
woods  began  to  irk  and  daunt  her.  The  covert 
of  the  house,  the  decent  privacy  of  rooms,  the 
swept  and  regulated  fire,  all  that  denotes  or 


beautifies  the  home  life  of  man,  began  to  draw 
her  as  with  cords.  The  pillar  of  smoke  was  now 
risen  into  some  stream  of  moving  air  ;  it  began  to 
lean  out  sideways  in  a  pennon  :  and  thereupon,  as 
though  the  change  had  been  a  summons,  Seraphina 
plunged  once  more  into  the  labyrinth  of  the  wood. 

She  left  day  upon  the  high  ground.  In  the 
lower  groves  there  still  lingered  the  blue  early 
twilight  and  the  seizing  freshness  of  the  dew. 
But  here  and  there,  above  this  field  of  shadow, 
the  head  of  a  great  outspread  pine  was  already 
glorious  with  day  ;  and  here  and  there,  through  the 
breaches  of  the  hills,  the  sunbeams  made  a  great  and 
luminous  entry.  Here  Seraphina  hastened  along 
forest  paths.  She  had  lost  sight  of  the  pilot  smoke, 
which  blew  another  way,  and  conducted  herself  in 
that  great  wilderness  by  the  direction  of  the  sun. 
But  presently  fresh  signs  bespoke  the  neighbour- 
hood of  man  ;  felled  trunks,  white  slivers  from  the 
axe,  bundles  of  green  boughs,  and  stacks  of  fire- 
wood. These  guided  her  forward  :  until  she  came 
forth  at  last  upon  the  clearing  whence  the  smoke 
arose.  A  hut  stood  in  the  clear  shadow,  hard  by 
a  brook  which  made  a  series  of  inconsiderable 
falls  ;  and  on  the  threshold  the  Princess  saw  a  sun- 
burnt and  hard-featured  woodman,  standing  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back  and  gazing  skyward. 

She  went  to  him  directly :  a  beautiful,  bright- 
eyed,  and  haggard  vision  :  splendidly  arrayed  and 
pitifully  tattered ;  the  diamond  ear-drops  still  glit- 
tering in  her  ears,  and  with  the  movement  of  her 
144 


coming,  one  small  breast  showing  and  hiding 
among  the  ragged  covert  of  the  laces.  At  that 
ambiguous  hour,  and  coming  as  she  did  from  the 
great  silence  of  the  forest,  the  man  drew  back  from 
the  Princess  as  from  something  elfin.  "  I  am 
cold,"  she  said,  "and  weary.  Let  me  rest  beside 
your  fire." 

The  woodman  was  visibly  commoved,  but 
answered  nothing. 

"  I  will  pay,"  she  said,  and  then  repented  of  the 
words,  catching  perhaps  a  spark  of  terror  from  his 
frightened  eyes.  But,  as  usual,  her  courage  re- 
kindled brighter  for  the  check.  She  put  him  from 
the  door  and  entered,  and  he  followed  her  in  super- 
stitious wonder.  Within  the  hut  was  rough  and 
dark  ;  but  on  the  stone  that  served  as  hearth,  twigs 
and  a  few  dry  branches  burned  with  the  brisk 
sounds  and  with  all  the  variable  beauty  of  fire. 
The  very  sight  of  it  composed  her :  she  crouched 
hard  by  on  the  earth  floor  and  shivered  in  the 
glow,  and  looked  upon  the  eating  blaze  with  ad- 
miration. The  woodman  was  still  staring  at  his 
guest :  at  the  wreck  of  the  rich  dress,  the  bare 
arms,  the  bedraggled  laces  and  the  gems.  He 
found  no  word  to  utter. 

"  Give  me  food,"  said  she, — "here  by  the  fire." 

He  set  down  a  pitcher  of  coarse  wine,  bread,  a 
piece  of  cheese,  and  a  handful  of  raw  onions. 
The  bread  was  hard  and  sour,  the  cheese  like 
leather ;  even  the  onion,  which  ranks  with  the 
truffle  and  the  nectarine  in  the  chief  place  of 

L  145 


honour  of  earth's  fruits,  is  not  perhaps  a  diet  for 
princesses  when  raw.  But  she  ate,  if  not  with 
appetite,  with  courage  ;  and  when  she  had  eaten, 
did  not  disdain  the  pitcher.  In  all  her  life  before, 
she  had  not  tasted  of  gross  food  nor  drunk  after 
another :  but  a  brave  woman  far  more  readily 
accepts  a  change  of  circumstances  than  the  bravest 
man.  All  that  while,  the  woodman  continued  to 
observe  her  furtively,  many  low  thoughts  of  fear 
and  greed  contending  in  his  eyes.  She  read  them 
clearly,  and  she  knew  she  must  be-gone. 

Presently  she  arose  and  offered  him  a  florin. 

"  Will  that  repay  you  ? "  she  asked. 

But  here  the  man  found  his  tongue.  "  I  must 
have  more  than  that,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  all  I  have  to  give  you,"  she  returned,  and 
passed  him  by  serenely. 

Yet  her  heart  trembled,  for  she  saw  his  hand 
stretched  forth  as  if  to  arrest  her,  and  his  unsteady 
eyes  wandering  to  his  axe.  A  beaten  path  led 
westward  from  the  clearing,  and  she  swiftly  followed 
it.  She  did  not  glance  behind  her.  But  as  soon 
as  the  least  turning  of  the  path  had  concealed  her 
from  the  woodman's  eyes,  she  slipped  among  the 
trees  and  ran  till  she  deemed  herself  in  safety. 

By  this  time  the  strong  sunshine  pierced  in  a 
thousand  places  the  pine  thatch  of  the  forest,  fired 
the  red  boles,  irradiated  the  cool  aisles  of  shadow, 
and  burned  in  jewels  on  the  grass.  The  gum  of 
these  trees  was  clearer  to  the  senses  than  the  gums 
of  Araby ;  each  pine,  in  the  lusty  morning  sunlight, 
146 


burned  its  own  wood-incense  ;  and  now  and  then 
a  breeze  would  rise  and  toss  these  rooted  censers, 
and  send  shade  and  sun -gem  flitting,  swift  as 
swallows,  thick  as  bees ;  and  waken  brushing 
bustle  of  sounds  that  murmured  and  went  by. 

On  she  passed,  and  up  and  down,  in  sun  and 
shadow  ;  now  aloft  on  the  bare  ridge  among  the 
rocks  and  birches,  with  the  lizards  and  the  snakes ; 
and  anon  in  the  deep  grove  among  sunless  pillars. 
Now  she  followed  wandering  wood -paths  in  the 
maze  of  valleys  ;  and  again  from  a  hill-top,  beheld 
the  distant  mountains  and  the  great  birds  circling 
under  the  sky.  She  would  see  afar  off  a  nestling 
hamlet,  and  go  round  to  avoid  it.  Below  she  traced 
the  course  of  the  foam  of  mountain  torrents. 
Nearer  hand,  she  saw  where  the  tender  springs 
welled  up  in  silence,  or  oozed  in  green  moss  :  or 
in  the  more  favoured  hollows  a  whole  family  of 
infant  rivers  would  combine,  and  tinkle  in  the 
stones,  and  lie  in  pools  to  be  a  bathing-place  for 
sparrows,  or  fall  from  the  sheer  rock  in  rods  of 
crystal.  Upon  all  these  things,  as  she  still  sped 
along  in  the  bright  air,  she  looked  with  a  rapture 
of  surprise  and  a  joyful  fainting  of  the  heart ;  they 
seemed  so  novel,  they  touched  so  strangely  home, 
they  were  so  hued  and  scented,  they  were  so  beset 
and  canopied  by  the  dome  of  the  blue  air  of 
heaven. 

At  length,  when  she  was  well  weary,  she  came 
upon  a  wide  and  shallow  pool.  Stones  stood  in  it, 
like  islands ;  bullrushes  fringed  the  coast :  the 


floor  was  paved  with  pine-needles  ;  and  the  pines 
themselves,  whose  roots  made  promontories,  looked 
silently  down  on  their  green  images.  She  crept 
to  the  margin  and  beheld  herself  with  wonder,  a 
hollow  and  bright-eyed  phantom,  in  the  ruins  of 
her  palace  robe.  The  breeze  now  shook  her 
image  ;  now  it  would  be  marred  with  flies  ;  and  at 
that  she  smiled  ;  and  from  the  fading  circles,  her 
counterpart  smiled  back  to  her  and  looked  kind. 
She  sat  long  in  the  warm  sun,  and  pitied  her  bare 
arms  that  were  all  bruised  and  marred  with  falling, 
and  marvelled  to  see  that  she  was  dirty,  and 
could  not  grow  to  believe  that  she  had  gone  so 
long  in  such  a  strange  disorder. 

Then  with  a  sigh,  she  addressed  herself  to 
make  a  toilet  by  that  forest  mirror,  washed  herself 
pure  from  all  stains  of  her  adventure,  took  off  her 
jewels  and  wrapped  them  in  her  handkerchief, 
re-arranged  the  tatters  of  her  dress  and  took  down 
the  folds  of  her  hair.  She  shook  it  round  her 
face,  and  the  pool  repeated  her  thus  veiled.  Her 
hair  had  smelt  like  violets,  she  remembered  Otto 
saying  :  and  so  now  she  tried  to  smell  it,  and  then 
shook  her  head,  and  laughed  a  little,  sadly,  to 
herself. 

The  laugh  was  returned  upon  her  in  a  childish 
echo.  She  looked  up,  and  lo !  two  children  looking 
on, — a  small  girl  and  a  yet  smaller  boy,  standing 
like  playthings  by  the  pool,  below  a  spreading  pine. 
Seraphina  was  not  fond  of  children,  and  now  she 
was  startled  to  the  heart. 
148 


"  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  cried,  hoarsely. 

The  mites  huddled  together  and  drew  back : 
and  Seraphina's  heart  reproached  her  that  she 
should  have  frightened  things  so  quaint  and  little, 
and  yet  alive  with  senses.  She  thought  upon  the 
birds  and  looked  again  at  her  two  visitors  ;  so 
little  larger  and  so  far  more  innocent.  On  their 
clear  faces,  as  in  a  pool,  she  saw  the  reflection  of 
their  fears.  With  gracious  purpose  she  arose. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  do  not  be  afraid  of  me,"  and 
took  a  step  towards  them. 

But  alas  !  at  the  first  moment,  the  two  poor 
babes  in  the  wood  turned  and  ran  helter-skelter 
from  the  Princess. 

The  most  desolate  pang  was  struck  into  the 
girl's  heart.  Here  she  was,  twenty-two — soon 
twenty-three — and  not  a  creature  loved  her  :  none 
but  Otto ;  and  would  even  he  forgive  ?  If  she 
began  weeping  in  these  woods  alone,  it  would 
mean  death  or  madness.  Hastily  she  trod  the 
thoughts  out  like  a  burning  paper ;  hastily  rolled 
up  her  locks,  and  with  terror  dogging  her,  and 
her  whole  bosom  sick  with  grief,  resumed  her 
journey. 

Past  ten  in  the  forenoon,  she  struck  a  high-road, 
marching  in  that  place  uphill  between  two  stately 
groves,  a  river  of  sunlight :  and  here,  dead  weary, 
careless  of  consequences,  and  taking  some  courage 
from  the  human  and  civilized  neighbourhood  of  the 
road,  she  stretched  herself  on  the  green  margin  in 
the  shadow  of  a  tree.  Sleep  closed  on  her,  at  first 
149 


with  a  horror  of  fainting,  but  when  she  ceased  to 
struggle,  kindly  embracing  her.  So  she  was 
taken  home  for  a  little,  from  all  her  toils  and 
sorrows,  to  her  Father's  arms. 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 


The  Lover's  Vow        *o        *^>        *^> 

THIRST  shall  the  heavens  want  starry  light, 

The  seas  be  robbed  of  their  waves  : 
The  day  want  sun,  the  sun  want  bright, 
The  night  want  shade,  the  dead  men  graves ; 

The  April  flowers  and  leaf  and  tree, 

Before  I  false  my  faith  to  thee. 

First  shall  the  tops  of  highest  hills 
By  humble  plains  be  over-pried  : 
And  poets  scorn  the  Muses'  quills, 
And  fish  forsake  the  water-glide  ; 

And  Iris  lose  her  coloured  weed, 

Before  I  fail  thee  at  thy  need. 

First  direful  hate  shall  turn  to  peace, 
And  love  relent  in  deep  disdain  ; 
And  death  his  fatal  stroke  shall  cease, 
And  envy  pity  every  pain  ; 

And  pleasure  mourn,  and  sorrow  smile, 

Before  I  talk  of  any  guile. 


First  Time  shall  stay  his  stayless  race, 
And  winter  bless  his  boughs  with  corn  : 
And  snow  bemoisten  July's  face, 
And  winter  spring,  and  summer  mourn, 

Before  my  pen  by  help  of  fame 

Cease  to  recite  thy  sacred  name. 

T.  Lodge. 


My  true  love  hath  my  Heart        *o>        ^o 

JV/T  Y  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  the  other  given  : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss  : 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven. 
His  heart  in  me  keeps  me  and  him  in  one  ; 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides  : 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own  ; 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides. 
His  heart  his  wound  received  from  my  sight ; 
My  heart  was  wounded  with  his  wounded  heart : 
For  as  from  me  on  him  his  hurt  did  light, 
So  still  methought  in  me  his  hurt  did  smart. 
Both  equal  hurt,  in  this  change  sought  our  bliss  : 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  P.  Sidney. 


15* 


The  description  and  praise  of 

his  Fairest  Love        -^        "Qy        *o 

A  T  shearing  time  she  shall  command 
The  finest  fleece  of  all  my  wool : 
And  if  her  pleasure  but  demand 
The  fattest  from  the  lean  to  cull, 
She  shall  be  mistKess  of  my  store  : 
Let  me  alone  to  work  for  more. 

My  cloak  shall  lie  upon  the  ground, 
From  wet  and  dust  to  keep  her  feet : 
My  pipe  with  his  best  measure's  sound, 
Shall  welcome  her  with  music  sweet : 
And  in  my  script  some  cates  at  least 
Shall  bid  her  to  a  shepherd's  feast. 

My  staff  shall  stay  her  in  her  walk, 
My  dog  shall  at  her  heels  attend  her  ; 
And  I  will  hold  her  with  such  talk 
As  I  do  hope  shall  not  offend  her  : 
My  ewes  shall  bleat,  my  lambs  shall  play, 
To  show  her  all  the  sport  they  may. 

Why,  I  will  teach  her  twenty  things. 
That  I  have  heard  my  mother  tell ; 
Of  plucking  of  the  buzzard's  wings 
For  killing  of  her  cockerel, 
And  hunting  Reynard  to  his  den 
For  frightening  of  her  sitting  hen. 

152 


How  she  would  say,  when  she  was  young, 
That  lovers  were  ashamed  to  lie, 
And  truth  was  so  on  every  tongue, 
That  love  meant  naught  but  honesty  ; 
"  And  sirrah  (quoth  she  then  to  me), 
Let  ever  this  thy  lesson  be  : 

Look  when  thou  lovest,  love  but  one, 
And  let  her  worthy  be  thy  love  ; 
Then  love  her  in  thy  heart  alone, 
And  let  her  in  thy  passions  prove." 

And  I  will  tell  her  such  fine  tales, 
As  for  the  nonce  I  will  devise  : 
Of  lapwings  and  of  nightingales, 
And  how  the  swallow  feeds  on  flies  ; 
And  of  the  hare,  the  fox,  the  hound, 
The  pasture  and  the  meadow  ground. 

And  of  the  springs,  and  of  the  wood, 

And  of  the  forests,  and  the  deer, 

And  of  the  rivers  and  the  floods, 

And  of  the  mirth  and  merry  cheer, 

And  of  the  looks  and  of  the  glances 

Of  maids  and  young  men  in  their  dances : 

Of  clapping  hands,  and  drawing  gloves, 
And  of  the  tokens  of  love's  truth, 
And  of  the  pretty  turtle-doves, 
That  teach  the  billing  tricks  of  youth. 

Nicholas  Breton. 
'S3 


To  Ccelia        *^        -Qy        ^>        ^Qy 

\\7 HEN  Coelia  must  my  old  day  set, 

And  my  young  morning  rise, 
In  beams  of  joy  so  bright  as  yet 

Ne'er  blessed  a  lover's  eyes  ? 
My  state  is  more  advanc'd,  than  when 

I  first  attempted  thee  ; 
I  sued  to  be  a  servant  then, 

But  now  to  be  made  free. 

I've  serv'd  my  time  faithful  and  true, 

Expecting  to  be  plac'd 
In  happy  freedom,  as  my  due, 

To  all  the  joys  thou  has't : 
111  husbandry  in  love  is  such 

A  scandal  to  Love's  power, 
We  ought  not  to  mis-spend  so  much 

As  one  poor  short-lived  hour. 

Yet  think  not  sweet,  I'm  weary  grown, 

That  I  pretend  such  haste  ; 
Since  none  to  surfeit  e'er  was  known, 

Before  he  had  a  taste  ; 
My  infant  Love  could  humbly  wait. 

When  young  it  scarce  knew  how 
To  plead  ;  but  grown  to  man's  estate, 

He  is  impatient  now. 

C.  Cotton. 


154 


To  Flavia        ^y        *^x        -^x        *^y 

'  nriS  not  your  beauty  can  engage 

My  wary  heart ; 
The  sun  in  all  his  pride  and  rage, 

Has  not  that  art : 

And  yet  he  shines  as  bright  as  you, 
If  brightness  could  our  souls  subdue. 

'Tis  not  the  pretty  things  you  say, 

Nor  those  you  write, 
Which  can  make  Thyrsis'  heart  your  prey : 

For  that  delight, 

The  graces  of  a  well-taught  mind, 
In  some  of  our  own  sex  we  find. 

No,  Flavia  !  'tis  your  love  I  fear  : 

Love's  surest  darts, 
Those  which  so  seldom  fail  him,  are 

Headed  with  hearts. 
Their  very  shadows  make  us  yield, 
Dissemble  well  and  win  the  field. 

E.  Waller. 


155 


What  the  Voices  said        <^        <>y 
(From  The  Silent  Voices) 

"DEYOND  the  sun,  beyond  the  furthest  star, 
Shines  still  the  land  which  poets  still  may  win, 
Whose  poems  are  their  lives — whose  souls 
within 

Hold  naught  in  dread  save  Art's  high  conscience 
bar — 

Who  have  for  muse  a  maiden  free  from  scar — 

Who  know  how  beauty  dies  at  touch  of  sin — 
Who  love  mankind,  yet,  having  gods  for  kin, 

Breathe  zephyrs,  in  the  street,  from  climes  afar. 

Heedless  of  phantom  Fame — heedless  of  all 

Save  pity  and  love  to  light  the  life  of  Man — 
True  poets  work,  winning  a  sunnier  span 
For  Nature's  martyr — Night's  ancestral  thrall : 
True  poets  work,  yet  listen  for  the  call 
Bidding  them  join  their  country  and  their  clan. 

Theodore  Watts-Dunton. 


156 


AUTUMN 
FOR    MATURITY 


THEN  came  the  Autumne  all  in  yellow  clad, 
As  though  he  joyed  in  his  plentious  store, 
Laden  with  fruits  that  made  him  laugh,  full  glad 
That  he  had  banisht  hunger,  which  to-fore 
Had  by  the  belly  oft  him  pinched  sore  : 
Upon  his  head  a  wreath,  that  was  enrold 
With  ears  of  corne  of  every  sort,  he  bore  ; 
And  in  his  hand  a  sickle  he  did  holde, 
To  reape  the  ripened  fruits  the  which  the  earth  had  yolde. 

Ed.  Spenser. 
Mutabilitie^  Canto  vii. 


It  is  not  Beauty  I  demand        ^y        - 

(From  Miscellaneous  Poems} 

T  T  is  not  Beauty  I  demand, 

A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 
Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 
Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair. 

Tell  me  not  of  your  starry  eyes, 
Your  lips  that  seem  on  roses  fed, 

Your  breasts  where  Cupid  trembling  lies, 
Nor  sleeps  for  kissing  of  his  bed. 

A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks, 
Like  Hebe's  in  her  ruddiest  hours, 

A  breath  that  softer  music  speaks, 
Than  summer  winds  a-wooing  flowers. 

These  are  but  gauds  ;  nay,  what  are  lips  ? 

Coral  beneath  the  ocean-stream, 
Whose  brink  when  your  adventurer  sips 

Full  oft  he  perisheth  on  them. 

And  what  are  cheeks  but  ensigns  oft 
That  wave  hot  youth  to  fields  of  blood  ? 

Did  Helen's  breast  though  ne'er  so  soft 
Bring  Greece  or  Ilium  any  good  ? 

Eyes  can  with  baleful  ardour  burn, 
Poison  can  breath  that  erst  perfumed, 

There's  many  a  white  hand  holds  an  urn 
With  lovers'  hearts  to  dust  consumed. 

159 


For  crystal  brows — there's  naught  within, 
They  are  but  empty  cells  for  pride  : 

He  who  the  Siren's  hair  would  win 
Is  mostly  strangled  in  the  tide. 

Give  me,  instead  of  beauty's  bust, 

A  tender  heart,  a  loyal  mind, 
Which  with  temptation  I  could  trust, 

Yet  never  linked  with  error  find. 

One  in  whose  gentle  bosom  I 

Could  pour  my  secret  heart  of  woes, 

Like  the  care-burdened  honey-fly 
That  hides  his  murmurs  in  the  rose. 

My  earthly  comforter  !  whose  love 

So  indefeasible  might  be, 
That  when  my  spirit  won  above 

Hers  could  not  stay  for  sympathy 

George  Darley. 


From  the  Cliffs  :  Noon        '<Qy        "O 

n^HE  sea  is  in  its  listless  chime : 

Time's  lapse  it  is,  made  audible, 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  large  shell. 
In  a  sad  blueness  beyond  rhyme 
It  ends  :  sense,  without  thought,  can  pass 
No  stadium  further  :  Since  time  was, 
This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 
160 


No  stagnance  that  death  wins—it  hath 
The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 
Always  enduring  at  dull  Strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 
Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 
Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Grey  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

D.  G.  Rossetti. 

The  Garden        *^x        o        <^ 

T  T  OW  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 

To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays  : 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow  verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid  ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose  ! 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  amongst  the  plants  will  grow  : 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 

M  161 


Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name  : 

Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed, 

How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed  ! 

Fair  trees  !  wheres'e'er  your  barks  I  wound, 

No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passions  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  Gods,  that  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race  ; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow  ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head  ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine  ; 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness  : 
The  mind,  that  Ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 
162 


Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  : 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  Garden-state, 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate  : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  he  meet  ? 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there  : 
Two  paradises  'twere  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 

Of  flowers  and  herbs,  this  dial  new  ; 

Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 

Does  thro'  a  fragrant  zodiac  run. 

And  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 

Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 

Be  reckoned  but  with  herbs  and  flowers. 

A.  Marvell. 


Invocation  to  Pan        <^        <^K        <^ 

(From  Endymion) 

C\  THOU,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 

From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness  ; 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryad's  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and 

hearken 

The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth  ; 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  love  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now, 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow  ; 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripened  fruitage :  yellow  girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs  :  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn  ; 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
164 


To  sing  for  thee  :  low  creeping  strawberries 

Their  summer  coolness  :  pent-up  butterflies 

Their  freckled  wings  :  yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 

All  its  completions,  be  quickly  near, 

By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain-pine, 

O  forester  divine ! 

Thou  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service  :  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit : 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw  ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewildered  shepherds  to  their  path  again  ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  humble  into  Naiads'  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping  ; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak  apples,  and  fir  cones  brown — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king  ! 

O  Hearkener  to  the  loud  clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating  :  Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsmen  :  Breather  round  our  farms, 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms  . 

165 


Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  : 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 
The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows  ! 

/.  Keats. 

Letter        "s>        "v>        'Qy        ^y 

(From  Walpok's  Letters] 

To  GEORGE  MONTAGU. 

Houghton,  March  2Jf  1761. 

T  T  ERE  I  am  at  Houghton  !  and  alone  !  in  this 
spot,  where  (except  two  hours  last  month)  I 
have  not  been  in  sixteen  years  !  Think  what  a 
crowd  of  reflections  ! — no,  Gray  and  forty  church- 
yards could  not  furnish  so  many  ;  nay,  I  know  one 
must  feel  them  with  greater  indifference  than  I 
possess,  to  have  patience  to  put  them  into  verse. 
Here  I  am,  probably  for  the  last  time  of  my  life, 
though  not  for  the  last  time— every  clock  that 
strikes  tells  me  I  am  an  hour  nearer  to  yonder 
church — that  church  into  which  I  have  not  yet  had 
courage  to  enter,  where  lies  that  mother  on  whom 
I  doted,  and  who  doted  on  me  !  There  are  the 
two  rival  mistresses  of  Houghton,  neither  of  whom 
ever  wished  to  enjoy  it !  There  too  lies  he  who 
166 


founded  its  greatness,  to  contribute  to  whose  fall 
Europe  was  embroiled — there  he  sleeps  in  quiet 
and  dignity,  while  his  friend  and  his  foe,  rather  his 
false  ally  and  real  enemy,  Newcastle  and  Bath, 
are  exhausting  the  dregs  of  their  pitiful  lives  in 
squabbles  and  pamphlets. 

The  surprise  the  pictures  gave  me  is  again 
renewed — accustomed  for  many  years  to  see  nothing 
but  wretched  daubs  and  varnished  copies  at  auc- 
tions, I  look  at  these  as  enchantment.  My  own 
description  of  them  seems  poor — but  shall  I  tell 
you  truly — the  majesty  of  Italian  ideas  almost 
sinks  before  the  warm  nature  of  Flemish  colouring ! 
Alas  !  don't  I  grow  old  ?  My  young  imagination 
was  fired  with  Guide's  ideas — must  they  be  plump 
and  prominent  as  Abishag  to  warm  me  now? 
Does  great  youth  feel  with  poetic  limbs,  as  well  as 
see  with  poetic  eyes?  In  one  respect  I  am  very 
young :  I  cannot  satiate  myself  with  looking — an 
incident  contributed  to  make  me  feel  this  more 
strongly.  A  party  arrived,  just  as  I  did,  to  see  the 
house,  a  man  and  three  women  in  riding  dresses, 
and  they  rode  past  through  the  apartments — I 
could  not  hurry  before  them  fast  enough — they 
were  not  so  long  in  seeing  for  the  first  time,  as  I 
could  have  been  in  one  room,  to  examine  what  I 
knew  by  heart.  I  remember  formerly  being  often 
diverted  with  this  kind  of  seers — they  come,  ask 
what  such  a  room  is  called,  in  which  Sir  Robert 
lay,  write  it  down,  admire  a  lobster  or  a  cabbage 
in  a  market-piece,  dispute  whether  the  last  room 
167 


was  green  or  purple,  and  then  hurry  to  the  inn  for 
fear  the  fish  should  be  over-dressed — how  different 
my  sensations  !  Not  a  picture  here  but  recalls  a 
history :  not  one,  but  I  remember  in  Downing 
Street  or  Chelsea,  where  queens  and  crowds 
admired  them,  though  seeing  them  as  little  as 
these  travellers  ! 

When  I  had  drunk  tea,  I  strolled  into  the  garden 
— they  told  me  it  was  now  called  the  pleasure 
ground — what  a  dissonant  idea  of  pleasure — those 
groves,  those  allees,  where  I  have  passed  so  many 
charming  moments,  are  now  stripped  up  or  over- 
grown ;  many  fond  paths  I  could  not  unravel, 
though  with  a  very  exact  clue  in  my  memory — 
I  met  two  gamekeepers  and  a  thousand  hares  ! 
In  the  days  when  all  my  soul  was  tuned  to  pleasure 
and  vivacity  (and  you  will  think,  perhaps,  it  is  far 
from  being  out  of  tune  yet)  I  hated  Houghton  and 
its  solitude — yet  I  loved  this  garden ;  as  now, 
with  many  regrets,  I  love  Houghton — Houghton, 
I  know  not  what  to  call  it,  a  monument  of  grandeur 
or  ruin !  how  I  have  wished  this  evening  for 
Lord  Bute !  how  I  could  preach  to  him !  For 
myself,  I  do  not  want  to  be  preached  to — I  have 
long  considered,  how  every  Balbec  must  wait  for 
the  chance  of  a  Mr.  Wood. 

The  servants  wanted  to  lay  me  in  the  great 
apartment — what,  to  make  me  pass  my  night  as  I 
have  done  my  evening  !  It  were  like  proposing  to 
Margaret  Roper  to  be  a  duchess  in  the  court  that 
cut  off  her  father's  head,  and  imagining  it  would 
168 


please  her.  I  have  chosen  to  sit  in  my  father's 
little  dressing-room,  and  am  now  by  his  scrutoire, 
where,  in  the  height  of  his  fortune,  he  used  to 
receive  the  accounts  of  his  farmers,  and  deceive 
himself — or  us,  with  the  thoughts  of  his  economy — 
how  wise  a  man  at  once,  and  how  weak  !  For 
what  has  he  built  Houghton  ?  for  his  grandson  to 
annihilate,  or  for  his  son  to  mourn  over  !  If  Lord 
Burleigh  could  rise  and  view  his  representative 
driving  the  Hatfield  stage,  he  would  feel  as  I  feel 
now — poor  little  Strawberry !  at  least  it  will  not 
be  stripped  to  pieces  by  a  descendant ! — You  will 
think  all  these  fine  meditations  dictated  by  pride, 
not  by  philosophy — pray  consider  through  how 
many  mediums  philosophy  must  pass  before  it  is 
purified — 

,  .  .  how  often  must  it  weep,  how  often  burn  ! 

My  mind  was  extremely  prepared  for  all  this 
gloom  by  parting  with  Mr.  Conway  yesterday 
morning — moral  reflections  on  commonplaces  are 
the  livery  one  likes  to  wear,  when  one  has  just  had 
a  real  misfortune.  He  is  going  to  Germany — I  was 
glad  to  dress  myself  up  in  transitory  Houghton,  in 
lieu  of  very  sensible  concern.  To-morrow  I  shall 
be  distracted  with  thoughts — at  least  images,  of 
very  different  complexion — I  go  to  Lynn,  and  am 
to  be  elected  on  Friday.  I  shall  return  hither  on 
Saturday,  again  alone  to  expect  Burleighides  on 
Sunday,  whom  I  left  at  Newmarket — I  must  once 
in  my  life  see  him  on  his  grandfather's  throne. 
169 


Epping  Forest, 

Monday  night,  thirty-first. 

No,  I  have  not  seen  him,  he  loitered  on  the  road, 
and  I  was  kept  at  Lynn  till  yesterday  morning. 
It  is  plain  I  never  knew  for  how  many  trades  I  was 
formed,  when  at  this  time  of  day  I  can  begin  elec- 
tioneering, and  succeed  in  my  new  vocation.  Think 
of  me,  the  subject  of  a  mob,  who  was  scarce  ever 
before  in  a  mob,  addressing  them  in  the  town  hall, 
riding  at  the  head  of  two  thousand  people  through 
such  a  town  as  Lynn,  dining  with  above  two  hun- 
dred of  them,  amid  bumpers,  huzzas,  songs,  and 
tobacco,  and  finishing  with  country  dancing  at 
a  ball  and  sixpenny  whisk  !  I  have  borne  it  all 
cheerfully  ;  nay,  have  sat  hours  in  conversation, 
the  thing  upon  earth  that  I  hate,  have  been  to 
hear  misses  play  on  the  harpsichord,  and  to  see 
an  alderman's  copies  of  Reubens  and  Carlo  Marat. 
Yet  to  do  the  folks  justice,  they  are  sensible,  and 
reasonable,  and  civilized ;  their  very  language  is 
polished  since  I  lived  among  them.  I  attribute 
this  to  their  more  frequent  intercourse  with  the 
world  and  the  capital,  by  the  help  of  good  roads 
and  postchaises,  which,  if  they  have  abridged  the 
king's  dominions,  have  at  least  tamed  his  subjects  : 
well !  how  comfortable  it  will  be  to-morrow,  to 
see  my  perroquet,  to  play  at  loo,  and  not  to  be 
obliged  to  talk  seriously — The  Heraclitus  at  the 
beginning  of  this  letter  will  be  overjoyed  on  finish- 
ing it  to  sign  himself  your  old  friend, 

DEMOCRITUS. 
170 


P.S.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  my  ancient  aunt 
Hammond  came  over  to  Lynn  to  see  me — not 
from  any  affection,  but  curiosity— the  first  thing 
she  said  to  me,  though  we  have  not  met  these 
sixteen  years  was,  "  Child,  you  have  done  a  thing 
to-day,  that  your  father  never  did  in  all  his  life  ; 
you  sat  as  they  carried  you ;  he  always  stood  the 
whole  time."  "  Madam "  said  I,  "  when  I  am 
placed  in  a  chair,  I  conclude  I  am  to  sit  in  it— 
besides,  as  I  cannot  imitate  my  father  in  great 
things,  I  am  not  at  all  ambitious  of  mimicking  him 
in  little  ones."  I  am  sure  she  proposes  to  tell  her 
remark  to  my  uncle  Horace's  ghost,  the  instant 
they  meet. 

Horace  Walpole. 


Robin  Hood        *^y        ^^        "^ 

"M"  O  !  those  days  are  gone  away, 

And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years  : 
Many  times  have  winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forests'  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 
171 


No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more  ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amaz'd  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  in  June 
You  may  go  with  sun  or  moon, 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you  ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent ; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din  ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "gren£  shawe"  ; 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  could  be  cast 
172 


Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze : 
He  would  swear  ;  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dockyard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas  : 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange  !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money  ! 

So  it  is  :  yet  let  us  sing, 
Honour  to  the  old  bow  string  ! 
Honour  to  the  bugle-horn  ! 
Honour  to  the  woods  unshorn  ! 
Honour  to  the  Lincoln  green  ! 
Honour  to  the  archer  keen  ! 
Honour  to  tight  little  John  ! 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon  ! 
Honour  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood  ! 
Honour  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood-clan  ! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 

/.  Keats. 


173 


On  the  Rhine        *£y        "Cy        -Cv 
(From  Lyric  Poems) 

WAIN  is  the  effort  to  forget, 

Some  day  I  shall  be  cold,  I  know, 
As  is  the  eternal  moon-lit  snow 
Of  the  high  Alps,  to  which  I  go  : 
But  ah,  not  yet !  not  yet ! 

Vain  is  the  agony  of  grief. 
'Tis  true,  indeed,  an  iron  knot 
Ties  straitly  up  from  mine  thy  lot, 
And  were  it  snapt — thou  lov'st  me  not  I 
But  is  despair  relief? 

Awhile  let  me  with  thought  have  done  ; 
And  as  this  brimm'd  unwrinkled  Rhine, 
And  that  far  purple  mountain  line, 
Lie  sweetly  in  the  look  divine 
Of  the  slow  sinking  sun  ; 

So  let  me  lie,  and,  calm  as  they, 
Let  beam  upon  my  inward  view 
Those  eyes  of  deep  soft  lucent  hue — 
Eyes  too  expressive  to  be  blue, 
Too  lovely  to  be  grey. 

Ah,  Quiet,  all  things  feel  thy  balm  ! 
Those  blue  hills  too,  this  river's  flow, 
Were  restless  once,  but  long  ago. 
Tam'd  is  their  turbulent  youthful  glow  : 
Their  joy  is  in  their  calm. 

M.  Arnold. 

174 


(From  Echoes) 

f~\  HAVE  you  blessed,  behind  the  stars, 
^^^  The  blue  sheen  in  the  skies, 
When  June  the  roses  round  her  calls  ? 
Then  do  you  know  the  light  that  falls 
From  her  beloved  eyes. 

And  have  you  felt  the  sense  of  peace 

That  morning  meadows  give  ? 
Then  do  you  know  the  spirit  of  grace, 
The  angel  abiding  in  her  face, 

Who  makes  it  good  to  live. 

She  shines  before  me,  hope  and  dream, 

So  fair,  so  still,  so  wise, 
That  winning  her,  I  seem  to  win 
Out  of  the  dust  and  drive  and  din 

A  nook  of  Paradise. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


Heraclitus        *<v>        ^        ^>        *s> 

(From  lonica) 

HP  HEY  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you 

were  dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter 

tears  to  shed. 

I  wept  as  I  remembered  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down 

the  sky. 

175 


And  now  that  them  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian 

guest, 

A  handful  of  grey  ashes,  long  long  ago  at  rest, 
Still  are  thy  pleasant    voices,  thy    nightingales, 

awake ; 
For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot 

take. 

W.  Cory. 

(From  Hydriotaphid] 

/T^O  be  content  that  times  to  come  should  only 
know  there  was  such  a  man,  not  caring 
whether  they  knew  more  of  him,  was  a  frigid 
ambition  in  Cardan ;  disparaging  his  horoscopal 
inclination  and  judgment  of  himself.  Who  cares 
to  subsist  like  Hippocrate's  patients,  or  Achilles's 
horses  in  Homer,  under  naked  nominations, 
without  deserts  and  noble  acts,  which  are  the 
balsam  of  our  memories,  the  entelechia  and  soul  of 
our  subsistencies  ?  To  be  nameless  in  worthy 
deeds,  exceeds  an  infamous  history.  The  Canaan- 
itish  woman  lives  more  happily  without  a  name, 
than  Herodias  with  one.  And  who  had  not  rather 
have  been  the  good  thief  than  Pilate  ? 

But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth 
her  poppy,  and  deals  with  the  memory  of  men 
without  distinction  to  merit  of  perpetuity.  Who 
can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the  pyramids  ?  Hero- 
stratus  lives  that  burnt  the  temple  of  Diana,  he  is 
almost  lost  that  built  it.  Time  hath  spared  the 

176 


epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse,  confounded  that  of 
himself.  In  vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the 
advantage  of  our  good  names,  since  bad  have 
equal  durations,  and  Thersites  is  like  to  live  as 
long  as  Agamemnon.  Who  knows  whether  the 
best  of  men  be  known,  or  whether  there  be  not 
more  remarkable  persons  forgot,  than  any  that 
stand  remembered  in  the  known  account  of  time  ? 
Without  the  favour  of  the  everlasting  register,  the 
first  man  had  been  as  unknown  as  the  last,  and 
Methusaleth's  long  life  had  been  his  only  chronicle. 
Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part 
must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they  had  not  been, 
to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  the 
record  of  man.  Twenty-seven  names  make  up 
the  first  story  before  the  flood,  and  the  recorded 
names  ever  since  contain  not  one  living  century. 
The  number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth  all  that  shall 
live.  The  night  of  time  far  surpasseth  the  day,  and 
who  knows  when  was  the  equinox  ?  Every  hour  adds 
unto  that  current  arithmetick,  which  scarce  stands 
one  moment.  And  since  death  must  be  the  Lucina 
of  life,  and  even  Pagans  could  doubt  whether  thus 
to  live  were  to  die ;  since  our  longest  sun  sets  at 
right  descensions,  and  makes  but  winter  arches, 
and  therefore  it  cannot  be  long  before  we  lie  down 
in  darkness,  and  have  our  light  in  ashes  ;  since 
the  brother  of  death  daily  haunts  us  with  dying 
mementos,  and  time  that  grows  old  in  itself,  bids 
us  hope  no  long  duration  ; — diuturnity  is  a  drearn 
and  folly  of  expectation. 

N  177 


Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time, 
and  oblivion  shares  with  memory  a  great  part 
even  of  our  living  beings  :  we  slightly  remember 
our  felicities,  and  the  smartest  strokes  of  affliction 
leave  but  short  smart  upon  us.  Sense  endureth 
no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  them- 
selves. To  weep  into  stones  are  fables.  Afflictions 
induce  callosities  :  miseries  are  slippery,  or  fall 
like  snow  upon  us,  which  notwithstanding  is  no 
unhappy  stupidity.  To  be  ignorant  of  evils  to 
come,  and  forgetful  of  evils  past,  is  a  merciful 
provision  in  nature,  whereby  we  digest  the  mixture 
of  our  few  and  evil  days,  and,  our  delivered  senses 
not  relapsing  into  cutting  remembrances,  our 
sorrows  are  not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of  repeti- 
tions. A  great  part  of  antiquity  contented  their 
hopes  of  subsistency  with  a  transmigration  of  their 
souls — a  good  way  to  continue  their  memories, 
while,  having  advantage  of  plural  successions,  they 
could  not  but  act  something  remarkable  in  such 
variety  of  beings,  and  enjoying  the  fame  of  their 
passed  selves,  make  accumulation  of  glory  unto 
their  last  durations.  Others,  rather  than  be  lost 
in  the  uncomfortable  night  of  nothing,  were  con- 
tent to  recede  into  the  common  being,  and  make 
one  particle  of  the  common  souls  of  all  things, 
which  was  no  more  than  to  return  into  their 
unknown  and  divine  original  again.  Egyptian 
ingenuity  was  more  unsatisfied,  contriving  their 
bodies  in  sweet  consistencies,  to  attend  the  return 
of  their  souls.  But  all  was  vanity,  feeding  the 


wind,  and  folly.  The  Egyptian  mummies,  which 
Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  con- 
sumeth.  Mummy  is  become  merchandise,  Mizraim 
cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams. 

In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immortality,  or 
any  patent  from  oblivion,  in  preservations  below 
the  moon  :  men  have  been  deceived  even  in  their 
flatteries,  above  the  sun,  and  studied  conceits  to 
perpetuate  their  names  in  heaven.  The  various 
cosmogony  of  that  part  hath  already  varied  the 
names  of  continued  constellations  ;  Nimrod  is  lost 
in  Orion,  and  Osyris  in  the  Dog-star.  While  we 
look  for  incorruption  in  the  heavens,  we  find  they 
are  but  like  the  earth : — durable  in  their  main 
bodies,  alterable  in  their  parts  ;  whereof,  beside 
comets  and  new  stars,  perspectives  begin  to  tell 
tales,  and  the  spots  that  wander  about  the  sun, 
with  Phaeton's  favour,  would  make  clear  conviction. 

There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal  but  immor- 
tality. Whatever  hath  no  beginning,  may  be 
confident  of  no  end ; — which  is  the  peculiar  of 
that  necessary  essence  that  cannot  destroy  itself— 
and  the  highest  strain  of  omnipotency,  to  be  so 
powerfully  constituted  as  not  to  suffer  even  from 
the  power  of  itself:  all  others  have  a  dependent 
being  and  within  the  reach  of  destruction.  But 
the  sufficiency  of  Christian  immortality  frustrates 
all  earthly  glory,  and  the  quality  of  either  state 
after  death  makes  a  folly  of  posthumous  memory. 
God  who  can  only  destroy  our  souls,  and  hath 
assured  our  ressurection,  either  of  our  bodies 
179 


or  names,  hath  directly  promised  no  duration. 
Wherein  there  is  so  much  of  chance  that  the 
boldest  expectants  have  found  unhappy  frustra- 
tion :  and  to  hold  long  subsistence  seems  but  a 
scape  in  oblivion.  But  man  is  a  noble  animal, 
splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave, 
solemnizing  nativities  and  deaths  with  equal  lustre, 
nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  in  the  infimy 
of  his  nature. 

Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an  invisible 
sun  within  us.  A  small  fire  sufficeth  for  life,  great 
flames  seemed  too  little  after  death,  while  men 
vainly  affected  precious  pyres,  and  to  burn  like 
Sardanapalus ;  but  the  wisdom  of  funeral  laws 
found  the  folly  of  prodigal  blazes,  and  reduced 
undoing  fires  unto  the  rule  of  sober  obsequies, 
wherein  few  could  be  so  mean  as  not  to  provide 
wood,  pitch,  a  mourner,  and  an  urn. 

Sir  T.  Browne. 


Iseult  of  Ireland        *£»        *o        O 

(From  Narrative  Poems} 

Tristan. 

"D  AISE  the  light,  my  page !   that  1  may  see 
XV    her,— 

Thou  art  come  at  last,  then,  haughty  Queen ! 
Long  I've  waited,  long  I've  fought  my  fever  : 
Late  thou  comest,  cruel  thou  hast  been. 
180 


Iseult. 

Blame  me  not,  poor  sufferer  !  that  I  tarried  : 

I  was  bound,  I  could  not  break  the  band. 
Chide  not  with  the  past,  but  feel  the  present ! 

I  am  here — we  meet — I  hold  thy  hand. 
Tristan. 
Thou  art  come  indeed — thou  hast  rejoin'd  me  ; 

Thou  hast  dar'd  it— but  too  late  to  save. 
Fear  not  now  that  men  should  tax  thy  honour  ! 

I  am  dying  :  build— thou  may'st— my  grave. 

Iseult. 
Tristan,  for  the  love  of  Heaven  speak  kindly  ! 

What,  I  hear  these  bitter  words  from  thee  ? 
Sick  with  grief  I  am,  and  faint  with  travel — 

Take  my  hand— dear  Tristan  look  on  me  ! 

Tristan. 
I  forgot,  thou  comest  from  thy  voyage — 

Yes,  the  spray  is  on  thy  cloak  and  hair. 
But  thy  dark  eyes  are  not  dimm'd,  proud  Iseult ! 

And  thy  beauty  never  was  more  fair. 
Iseult. 
Ah,  harsh  flatterer  !  let  alone  my  beauty  ! 

I,  like  thee,  have  left  my  youth  afar. 
Take  my  hand,  and  touch  these  wasted  fingers — 

See  my  cheek  and  lips,  how  white  they  are  ! 
Tristan. 
Thou  art  paler — but  thy  sweet  charm,  Iseult ! 

Would  not  fade  with  the  dull  years  away. 
Ah,  how  fair  thou  standest  in  the  moonlight ! 
I  forgive  thee  Iseult ! — thou  wilt  stay  ? 
181 


Iseult. 

Fear  me  not,  I  will  be  always  with  thee  ; 

I  will  watch  thee,  tend  thee,  soothe  thy  pain  ; 
Sing  thee  tales  of  true,  long-parted  lovers, 
Joined  at  evening  of  their  days  again. 

Tristan. 
No,  thou  shalt  not  speak  !  I  should  be  finding 

Something  alter'd  in  thy  courtly  tone. 
Sit — sit  by  me  !  I  will  think  we've  liv'd  so 

In  the  green  woods,  all  our  lives,  alone. 

Iseult. 

Alter'd,  Tristan  ?  Not  in  courts,  believe  me, 

Love  like  mine  is  alter'd  in  the  breast ; 
Courtly  life  is  light  and  cannot  reach  it — 
Ah  !  it  lives,  because  so  deep  suppress'd  ! 

Royal  state  with  Marc,  my  deep-wronged  hus- 
band— 

That  was  bliss  to  make  my  sorrows  flee  ! 
Silken  courtiers  whispering  honied  nothings — 

Those  were  friends  to  make  me  false  to  thee  ! 

What,  thou  think'st  men  speak  in  courtly  chambers 
Words  by  which  the  wretched  are  consoPd  ? 

What,  thou  think'st  this  aching  brow  was  cooler, 
Circled,  Tristan,  by  a  band  of  gold  ? 

Ah,  on  which,  if  both  our  lots  were  balanc'd, 
Was  indeed  the  heaviest  burden  thrown— 

Thee,  a  weeping  exile  in  thy  forest, 
Me,  a  smiling  queen  upon  my  throne  ? 
182 


Vain  and  strange  debate,  where  both  have  suflfer'd, 
Both  have  pass'd  a  youth  constrained  and  sad, 

Both  have  brought  their  anxious  day  to  evening, 
And  have  now  short  space  for  being  glad  ! 

Join'd  we  are  henceforth  ;  nor  will  thy  people, 

Nor  thy  younger  Iseult  take  it  ill 
That  a  former  rival  shares  her  office, 

When  she  sees  her  humbled,  pale,  and  still. 

I,  a  faded  watcher  by  thy  pillow, 

I,  a  statue  on  thy  chapel  floor, 
Pour'd  in  grief  before  the  Virgin-Mother, 

Rouse  no  anger,  make  no  rivals  more. 

She  will  cry  :  "  Is  this  the  foe  I  dreaded  ? 

This  his  idol  ?  this  his  royal  bride  ? 
Ah,  an  hour  of  health  would  purge  his  eyesight  I 

Stay,  pale  queen  !  for  ever  by  my  side." 

Hush,  no  words  !  that  smile,  I  see,  forgives  me. 

I  am  now  thy  nurse,  I  bid  thee  sleep. 
Close  thine  eyes — this  flooding  moonlight  blinds 
them  ! — 

Nay,  all's  well  again  !  thou  must  not  weep. 

Tristan. 
I  am  happy  !  yet  I  feel,  there's  something 

Swells  my  heart,  and  takes  my  breath  away. 
Through  a  mist  I  see  thee  :  near — come  nearer  1 
Bend — bend  down  ! — I  yet  have  much  to  say. 

183 


Iseult. 

Heaven  !  his  head  sinks  back  upon  the  pillow — 
Tristan  !  Tristan  !  let  thy  heart  not  fail ! 

Call  on  God  and  on  the  holy  angels  ! 
What,  love,  courage? — Christ !  he  is  so  pale. 

Tristan. 

Hush,  'tis  vain,  I  feel  my  end  approaching  ! 

This  is  what  my  mother  said  should  be, 
When  the  fierce  pains  took  her  in  the  forest, 

The  deep  draughts  of  death  in  bearing  me. 

"  Son,"  she  said,  "  thy  name  shall  be  of  sorrow  ; 

Tristan  art  thou  called  for  my  death's  sake." 
So  she  said,  and  died  in  the  drear  forest. 

Grief  since  then  his  home  with  me  doth  make. 

I  am  dying. — Start  not,  nor  look  wildly  ! 

Me,  thy  living  friend,  thou  canst  not  save. 
But  since  living  we  were  ununited, 

Go  not  far,  O  Iseult !  from  my  grave. 

Rise,  go  hence  and  seek  the  princess  Iseult : 
Speak  her  fair,  she  is  of  royal  blood  ! 

Say,  I  charg'd  her  that  ye  live  together — 
She  will  grant  it — she  is  kind  and  good. 

Now  to  sail  the  seas  of  death  I  leave  thee — 
One  last  kiss  upon  the  living  shore  ! 
184 


Iseult. 

Tristan ! — Tristan ! — stay — receive  me  with  thee ! 
Iseult  leaves  thee,  Tristan  !  never  more. 


You  see  them  clear— the  moon  shines  bright. 

Slow,  slow,  and  softly,  where  she  stood, 

She  sinks  upon  the  ground  ; — her  hood 

Had  fallen  back  ;  her  arms  outspread 

Still  hold  her  lover's  hands  ;  her  head 

Is  bow'd,  half-buried,  on  the  bed. 

O'er  the  blanch'd  sheet  her  raven  hair 

Lies  in  disorder'd  streams  :  and  there, 

Strung  like  white  stars,  the  pearls  still  are, 

And  the  golden  bracelets,  heavy  and  rare, 

Flash  on  her  white  arms  still. 

The  very  same  which  yesternight 

Flash'd  in  the  silver  sconce's  light, 

When  the  feast  was  gay  and  the  laughter  loud 

In  Tyntagel's  palace  proud. 

But  then  they  deck'd  a  restless  ghost 

With  hot-flushed  cheeks  and  brilliant  eyes, 

And  quivering  lips  on  which  the  tide 

Of  courtly  speech  abruptly  died, 

And  a  glance  which  over  the  crowded  floor, 

The  dancers  and  the  festive  host 

Flew  ever  to  the  door, 

That  the  knights  eyed  her  in  surprise, 

And  the  dames  whisper'd  scoffingly  : 

"  Her  moods,"  good  lack,  they  pass  like  showers  1 

185 


But  yesternight  and  she  would  be 
As  pale  and  still  as  wither'd  flowers, 
And  now  to-night  she  laughs  and  speaks 
And  has  a  colour  in  her  cheeks  : 
Christ  keep  us  from  such  fantasy  ! " 

The  air  of  the  December  night 
Steals  coldly  around  the  chamber  bright, 
Where  those  lifeless  lovers  be  ; 
Swinging  with  it,  in  the  light 
Flaps  the  ghostlike  tapestry. 
And  on  the  arras  wrought  you  see 
A  Stately  Huntsman,  clad  in  green, 
And  round  him  a  fresh  forest  scene. 
On  that  clear  forest-knoll  he  stays, 
With  his  pack  round  him,  and  delays. 
He  stares  and  stares,  with  troubled  face, 
At  this  huge  gleam-lit  fireplace, 
At  that  bright  iron  figur'd  door, 
And  those  blown  rushes  on  the  floor. 
He  gazes  down  into  the  room 
With  heated  cheeks  and  flurried  air, 
And  to  himself  he  seems  to  say — 
"  What  place  is  this,  and  who  are  they  f 
Who  is  that  kneeling  lady  fair  ? 
And  on  his  pillows  that  pale  knight 
Who  seems  of  marble  on  a  tomb  f 
How  comes  it  here,  this  chamber  bright, 
Through  whose  mulliorfd  windows  clear 
The  castle-court  all  wet  with  rain, 
The  drawbridge  and  the  moat  appear 
186 


And  then  the  beach,  and,  marked  with  spray, 

The  sunken  reefs,  and  far  away 

The  unquiet  bright  Atlantic  plain  ? 

—  What,  has  some  glamour  made  me  sleep, 

And  sent  me  with  my  dogs  to  sweep, 

By  night,  with  boisterous  bugle-peal, 

Through  some  old  sea-side  knightly  hall, 

Not  in  the  free  greenwood  at  all  ? 

That  knight's  asleep,  and  at  her  prayer 

That  Lady  by  the  bed  doth  kneel — 

Then  hush,  thou  boisterous  bugle-peal /" 

— The  wild  boar  rustles  in  his  lair  : 

The  fierce  hounds  snuff  the  tainted  air  ; 

But  lord  and  hounds  keep  rooted  there. 

Cheer,  cheer  thy  dogs  into  the  brake, 
O  Hunter  !  and  without  a  fear 
Thy  golden-tasselled  bugle  blow, 
And  through  the  glades  thy  pastime  take — 
For  thou  wilt  rouse  no  sleepers  here  ! 
For  these  thou  seest  are  unmoved  ; 
Cold,  cold  as  those  who  liv'd  and  lov'd 
A  thousand  years  ago. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

A  Song        ^>        *^>        ^>        ^> 

(From  lonica) 

/^\H,  earlier  shall  the  rosebuds  blow, 

In  after  years,  those  happier  years, 
And  childen  weep,  when  we  lie  low, 
Far  fewer  tears,  far  softer  tears. 


Oh,  true  shall  boyish  laughter  ring, 
Like  tinkling  chimes  in  kinder  times  I 
And  merrier  shall  the  maiden  sing  : 
And  I  not  there,  and  I  not  there. 

Like  lightning  in  the  summer  night 
Their  mirth  shall  be,  so  quick  and  free  ; 
And  oh  I  the  flash  of  their  delight 
I  shall  not  see,  I  may  not  see. 

In  deeper  dream,  with  wider  range, 
Those  eyes  shall  shine,  but  not  on  mine 
Unmoved,  unblest,  by  worldly  change, 
The  dead  must  rest,  the  dead  shall  rest. 

W.  Cory. 

(From  Hawthorn  and  Lavender] 

HTHE  downs  like  uplands  in  Eden 

Gleam  in  an  afterglow 
Like  a  rose-world  ruining  earthwards — 
Mystical,  wistful,  slow ! 

Near  and  afar  in  the  leafage, 

That  glad  last  call  to  the  nest ! 
And  the  thought  of  you  hangs  and  triumphs 

With  Hesper  low  in  the  west ! 

Till  the  song  and  the  light  and  the  colour, 

The  passion  of  earth  and  sky, 
Are  blent  in  a  rapture  of  boding 

Of  the  death  we  should  one  day  die. 

W.  E.  Henley. 
188 


The  Message        o        <^        <^ 

OEND  back  my  long-stray'd  eyes  to  me, 
^     Which  O  !  too  long  have  dwelt  on  thee  : 
But  if  from  you  they've  learnt  such  ill, 

To  sweetly  smile, 

And  then  beguile, 
Keep  the  deceivers,  keep  them  still. 

Send  home  my  harmless  heart  again, 
Which  no  unworthy  thought  could  stain  ; 
But  if  it  has  been  taught  by  thine 

To  forfeit  both 

Its  word  and  oath, 
Keep  it,  for  then  'tis  none  of  mine. 

Yet  send  me  back  my  heart  and  eyes, 

For  I'll  know  all  thy  falsities  ; 

That  I  one  day  may  laugh,  when  thou 

Shalt  grieve  and  mourn — 

Of  one  the  scorn, 
Who  proves  as  false  as  thou  art  now. 

John  Donne. 

Will.  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue      < 

(From  Early  Poems] 

/^V  PLUMP  head-waiter  at  the  Cock, 
^^     To  which  I  most  resort, 
How  goes  the  time  ?  'Tis  five  o'clock. 
Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port : 
189 


But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 
You  set  before  chance  comers, 

But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 
On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  of  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind, 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 

Ere  they  be  half  forgotten  ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

I  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 

Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 
And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 

Those  favoured  lips  of  mine  ; 
Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

New  life  blood  warm  the  bosom. 
And  barren  commonplaces  break 

In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board  ; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upxm  the  master  chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 
190 


Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 

By  many  pleasant  ways, 
Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 

The  current  of  my  days  : 
I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kissed ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer  ; 
And  softly,  through  a  vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen, 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half  views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood  ; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather  ; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes  ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new  ; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
191 


Let  raffs  be  ripe  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons, 

As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 
We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

The  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid  j 

With  fair  horizons  bound  : 
This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and  shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  soaring  Temple-bar, 

And  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Head-waiter,  honour'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  reeling  ripe, 
The  pint  you  gave  me  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stifFer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ  ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 
192 


For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay : 
Each  month  a  birthday  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble, 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double. 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 
Or,  elbow  deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo  ; 
Or  stow'd,  when  classic  Canning  died, 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 
The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 

To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 
His  proper  chop  to  each. 
O  193 


He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally  ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop. 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg, 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop  ; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  ; 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and  good, 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  spire, 

And  followed  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore, 

Till,  where  the  street  grew  straiter, 
One  fix'd  for  ever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head  waiter. 

***** 

194 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ; 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Amongst  the  chops  and  steaks  ! 
'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common  ; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any  born  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high  :  what  draws  me  down 

Into  the  common  day  ? 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  that  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit,  my  empty  glass  reversed, 

And  thrumming  on  the  table. 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I  take  myself  to  task  ; 
Lest  of  the  fullness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask  : 
For  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare, 

To  prove  myself  a  poet : 
But  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  grey  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gathered  up  ; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup  : 


And  others'  follies  teach  us  not, 
Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches  ; 

And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 
Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know, 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone  : 

'Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
Tis  gone  :  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces, 
And  fallen  into  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more  ; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamour  sent 

From  many  a  tavern  door, 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters  ; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow  : 
Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  them  talk  for  show  ; 
But  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd, 

He  flashed  his  random  speeches, 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

196 


So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 
For  should  I  prize  thee,  couldst  thou  last, 

At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 
I  hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass  : 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel : 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 

Head-waiter  of  the  chop  house  here, 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part :  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this  thou  shalt  from  all  things  suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter  ; 
And  where  so'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots  : 
Thy  latter  days,  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  amongst  the  pots  : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot ; 
Thy  care  is  under  polished  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot ; 
197 


To  come  and  go,  and  come  again, 

Returning  like  the  pewit, 
And  watched  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies  ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes  : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes, 
Till  mellow  death,  like  some  late  guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  : 
No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven  ; 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A  pint  pot  neatly  graven. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


198 


On  Reading  Old  Books        <^y        ^>        -^v 

(From  the  Plain  Speaker) 

T  HATE  to  read  new  books.  There  are  twenty 
or  thirty  volumes  that  I  have  read  over  and 
over  again,  and  these  are  the  only  ones  that  I  have 
any  desire  ever  to  read  at  all.  It  was  a  long  time 
before  I  could  bring  myself  to  sit  down  to  the 
"Tales  of  my  Landlord,"  but  now  that  author's 
works  have  made  a  considerable  addition  to  my 
scanty  library.  I  am  told  that  some  of  Lady  Mor- 
gan's are  good,  and  have  been  recommended  to 
look  into  "  Anastatius,"  but  I  have  not  yet  ventured 
upon  that  task.  A  lady,  the  other  day,  could  not 
refrain  from  expressing  her  surprise  to  a  friend, 
who  said  he  had  been  reading  "Delphine":  she 
asked, — If  it  had  not  been  published  some  time 
back?  Women  judge  of  books  as  they  do  of 
fashions,  or  complexions,  which  are  admired  only 
"  in  their  newest  gloss."  That  is  not  my  way.  I 
am  not  one  of  those  who  trouble  the  circulating 
libraries  much,  or  pester  the  booksellers  for  mail- 
coach  copies  of  standard  periodical  publications. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  am  greatly  addicted  to  black 
letter,  but  I  profess  myself  well  versed  in  the 
marble  bindings  of  "Andrew  Millar"  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  century :  nor  does  my  taste  revolt  at 
"Thurloe's  State  Papers,"  in  Russia  leather,  or 
an  ample  impression  of  "  Sir  William  Temple's 
Essays,"  with  a  portrait  after  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller 
199 


in  front.  I  do  not  think  altogether  the  worse  of  a 
book  for  having  survived  the  author  a  generation 
or  two.  I  have  more  confidence  in  the  dead  than 
the  living.  Contemporary  writers  may  generally 
be  divided  into  two  classes — ones  friends  or  ones 
foes.  Of  the  first  we  are  compelled  to  think  too 
well,  and  of  the  last  we  are  disposed  to  think  too 
ill,  to  receive  much  genuine  pleasure  from  the 
perusal,  or  to  judge  fairly  of  the  merits  of  either. 
One  candidate  for  literary  fame,  who  happens  to 
be  of  our  acquaintance,  writes  finely,  and  like  a 
man  of  genius  :  but  unfortunately  has  a  foolish 
face,  which  spoils  a  delicate  passage  ;  another 
inspires  us  with  the  highest  respect  for  his 
personal  talents  and  character,  but  does  not  quite 
come  up  to  our  expectations  in  print.  All  these 
contradictions  and  petty  details  interrupt  the 
calm  current  of  our  reflections.  If  you  want  to 
know  what  any  of  the  authors  were  who  lived 
before  our  time,  and  are  still  objects  of  anxious 
inquiry,  you  have  only  to  look  into  their  works. 
But  the  dust  and  smoke  and  noise  of  modern 
literature  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  pure 
silent  air  of  immortality. 

When  I  take  up  a  work  that  I  have  read  before 
(the  oftener  the  better)  I  know  what  I  have  to  expect. 
The  satisfaction  is  not  lessened  by  being  anticipated. 
When  the  entertainment  is  altogether  new,  I  sit 
down  to  it  as  I  should  to  a  strange  dish. — turn 
and  pick  out  a  bit  here  and  there,  and  am  in 
doubt  what  to  think  of  the  composition.  There 


is  a  want  of  confidence  and  security  to  second 
appetite.  New-fangled  books  are  also  like  made 
dishes  in  this  respect,  that  they  are  generally 
little  else  than  hashes  and  rifaccimentos  of  what 
has  been  served  up  entire  and  in  a  more  natural 
state  at  other  times.  Besides,  in  turning  thus  to 
a  well-known  author,  there  is  not  only  the  assurance 
that  my  time  will  not  be  thrown  away,  or  my 
palate  nauseated  with  the  most  insipid  or  vilest 
trash, — but  I  shake  hands  with,  and  look  an  old, 
tried  and  valued  friend  in  the  face, — compare 
notes,  and  chat  the  hours  away.  It  is  true,  we 
form  dear  friendships  with  such  ideal  guests — 
dearer,  alas  !  and  more  lasting,  than  those  with 
our  most  intimate  acquaintance.  In  reading  a 
book  which  is  an  old  favourite  with  me  (say  the 
first  novel  I  ever  read)  I  not  only  have  the 
pleasure  of  imagination  and  of  a  critical  relish 
of  the  work,  but  the  pleasures  of  memory  added 
to  it.  It  recalls  the  same  feelings  and  associations 
which  I  had  in  first  reading  it,  and  which  I  can 
never  have  again  in  any  other  way.  Standard 
productions  of  this  kind  are  links  in  the  chain  of 
our  conscious  being.  They  bind  together  the 
different  scattered  divisions  of  our  personal 
identity.  They  are  landmarks  and  guides  in 
our  journey  through  life.  They  are  pegs  and 
loops  on  which  we  hang  up,  or  from  which  we 
can  take  down  at  pleasure,  the  wardrobe  of  a 
moral  imagination,  the  relics  of  our  best  affections, 
the  tokens  and  records  of  our  happiest  hours. 
201 


They  are  like  Fortunatus'  Wishing- Cap— they 
give  us  the  best  riches — those  of  Fancy :  and 
transport  us,  not  over  half  the  globe,  but  (which 
is  better)  over  half  our  lives,  at  a  word's  notice. 

My  father  Shandy  solaced  himself  with  Brus- 
cambille.  Give  me  for  this  purpose  a  volume  of 
"Perigrine  Pickle"  or  "Tom  Jones."  Open  either  of 
them  anywhere — at  the  memoirs  of  Lady  Vane,  or 
the  adventures  at  the  masquerade  with  Lady 
Bellaston,  or  the  disputes  between  Thwackum 
and  Square,  or  the  escape  of  Molly  Seagrim,  or 
the  incident  of  Sophia  and  her  muff,  or  the 
edifying  prolixity  of  her  aunt's  lecture — and  there 
I  find  the  same  delightful,  busy,  bustling  scene  as 
ever,  and  feel  myself  the  same  as  when  I  was  first 
introduced  into  the  midst  of  it.  Nay  sometimes 
the  sight  of  an  odd  volume  of  these  good  old 
English  authors  on  a  stall,  or  the  name  lettered  on 
the  back  among  others  on  the  shelves  of  a  library, 
answers  the  purpose,  revives  the  whole  train  of 
ideas,  and  "sets  the  puppets  dallying."  Twenty 
years  are  struck  off  the  list,  and  I  am  a  child 
again.  A  sage  philosopher  (Godwin),  who  was 
not  a  very  wise  man,  said,  that  he  would  like  very 
well  to  be  young  again,  if  he  could  take  his  ex- 
perience with  him.  This  ingenious  person  did  not 
seem  to  be  aware,  by  the  gravity  of  his  remark, 
that  the  great  advantage  of  being  young  is  to  be 
without  this  weight  of  experience,  which  he  would 
fain  place  on  the  shoulders  of  youth,  and  which 
never  comes  too  late  with  years.  Oh  !  what  a 
202 


privilege  to  let  this  hump,  like  Christian's  burthen, 
drop  from  off  one's  back,  and  transport  one's-self, 
by  the  aid  of  a  little  musty  duodecimo,  to  the  time 
when  "  ignorance  was  bliss,"  and  when  we  first  got 
a  peep  at  the  raree  show  of  the  world,  through  the 
glass  of  fiction — gazing  at  mankind  as  we  do  at 
beasts  in  a  menagerie,  through  the  bars  of  their 
cages, — or  at  curiosities  in  a  museum,  that  we  must 
not  touch  !  For  myself,  not  only  are  the  old  ideas 
of  the  contents  of  the  work  brought  back  to  my 
mind  in  all  their  vividness,  but  the  old  associa- 
tions of  the  faces  and  persons  of  those  I  then 
knew,  as  they  were  in  their  lifetime— the  place 
where  I  sat  to  read  the  volume,  the  day  when  I 
got  it,  the  feeling  of  the  air,  the  fields,  the  sky — 
return,  and  all  my  early  impressions  with  them. 
This  is  better  to  me — those  places,  those  times, 
those  persons,  and  those  feelings  that  come  across 
me  as  I  retrace  the  story  and  devour  the  page,  are 
to  me  better  than  the  wet  sheets  of  the  last  new 
novel  from  the  Ballantyne  press,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  Minerva  press  in  Leadenhall  Street.  It  is  like 
visiting  the  scenes  of  early  youth.  I  think  of  the 
time  "when  I  was  at  my  father's  house,  and  my 
path  ran  down  with  butter  and  honey'' — when  I 
was  a  little,  thoughtless  child,  and  had  no  other 
wish  or  care  but  to  con  my  daily  task  and  be 
happy  ! — "Tom  Jones,"  I  remember,  was  the  first 
work  that  broke  the  spell.  It  came  down  in 
numbers  once  a  fortnight,  in  Cooke's  pocket 
edition,  embellished  with  cuts.  I  had  hitherto  read 
203 


only  in  school-books,  and  a  tiresome  ecclesiastical 
history  (with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe's 
"  Romance  of  the  Forest ") :  but  this  had  a 
different  relish  with  it — "sweet  in  the  mouth" 
though  not  "bitter  in  the  belly."  It  smacked  of 
the  world  I  lived  in,  and  in  which  I  was  to  live — 
and  showed  me  groups,  "gay  creatures"  not  "of 
the  element"  but  of  the  earth  ;  not  "living  in  the 
clouds  "  but  travelling  the  same  road  that  I  did  ; — 
some  that  had  passed  on  before  me,  and  others 
that  might  soon  overtake  me.  My  heart  had 
palpitated  at  the  thoughts  of  a  boarding-school 
ball,  or  gala-day  at  Midsummer  or  Christmas  ;  but 
the  world  I  had  found  out  in  Cooke's  edition  of 
the  British  Novelists  was  to  me  a  dance  through 
life,  a  perpetual  gala- day.  The  sixpenny  numbers 
of  this  work  regularly  contrived  to  leave  off  just  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  in  the  nick  of  a 
story,  where  Tom  Jones  discovers  Square  behind 
the  blanket ;  or  where  Parson  Adams,  in  the  in- 
extricable confusion  of  events,  very  undesignedly 
gets  to  bed  to  Mrs.  Slipslop.  Let  me  caution 
the  reader  against  this  impression  of  "Joseph 
Andrews " ;  for  there  is  a  picture  of  Fanny  in  it 
which  he  should  not  set  his  heart  on,  lest  he 
should  never  meet  with  anything  like  it ;  or  if  he 
should,  it  would,  perhaps,  be  better  for  him  if 

he  had  not.     It  was  just  like !     With 

what  eagerness  I  used  to  look  forward  to  the  next 

number,  and  open  the  prints  !     Ah !  never  again 

shall  I  feel  the  enthusiastic  delight  with  which  I 

204 


gazed  at  the  figures,  and  anticipated  the  stories 
and  adventures  of  Major  Bath  and  Commodore 
Trunnion,  of  Trim  and  my  Uncle  Toby,  of  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  and  Dapple,  of  Gil  Bias  and 
Dame  Lorenza  Sephora,  of  Laura  and  the  fair 
Lucretia,  whose  lips  open  and  shut  like  buds  of 
roses.  To  what  nameless  ideas  did  they  give  rise, 
— with  what  airy  delights  I  filled  up  the  outlines, 
as  I  hung  in  silence  over  the  page  ! — Let  me  still 
recall  them,  that  they  may  breathe  fresh  life  into 
me,  and  that  I  may  live  that  birthday  of  thought 
and  romantic  pleasure  over  again !  Talk  of  the 
ideal!  This  is  the  only  true  ideal— the  heavenly 
tints  of  Fancy  reflected  in  the  bubbles  that  float 
on  the  springtide  of  human  life. 

Oh  !  Memory  !  shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife, 
And  give  those  scenes  thine  everlasting  life  ! 

The  paradox  with  which  I  set  out  is,  I  hope,  less 
startling  than  it  was  :  the  reader  will,  by  this  time, 
have  been  let  into  my  secret.  Much  about  the 
same  time,  or  I  believe  rather  earlier,  I  took  a 
particular  satisfaction  in  reading  Chubb's  Tracts, 
and  I  often  think  I  will  get  them  again  to  wade 
through.  There  is  a  high  gusto  of  polemical 
divinity  in  them  ;  and  you  fancy  you  hear  a  club 
of  shoemakers  at  Salisbury  debating  a  disputable 
text  from  one  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles  in  a  workman- 
like style,  with  equal  shrewdness  and  pertinacity. 
I  cannot  say  much  for  my  metaphysical  studies, 
into  which  I  launched  shortly  after  with  great 

205 


ardour,  so  as  to  make  a  toil  of  a  pleasure.  I  was 
presently  entangled  in  briars  and  thorns  of  subtle 
distinctions, —  of  "  fate,  free  -  will,  foreknowledge 
absolute,"  though  I  cannot  add  that  "in  their 
wandering  mazes  I  found  no  end  "  ;  for  I  did  arrive 
at  some  very  satisfactory  and  potent  conclusions  : 
nor  will  I  go  so  far,  however  ungrateful  the  subject 
may  seem,  as  to  exclaim  with  Marlowe's  Faustus — 
"  Would  I  had  never  seen  Wittenburg,  never  read 
book," — that  is,  never  studied  such  authors  as 
Hartley,  Hume,  Berkeley,  &c.  Locke's  "  Essay  on 
the  Human  Understanding"  is,  however,  a  work 
from  which  I  never  derived  either  pleasure  or  profit ; 
and  Hobbes,  dry  and  powerful  as  he  is,  I  did  not 
read  till  long  afterwards.  I  read  a  few  poets, 
which  did  not  much  hit  my  taste, — for  I  would 
have  the  reader  understand,  I  am  deficient  in 
the  faculty  of  imagination  ;  but  I  fell  early  upon 
French  romances  and  philosophy,  and  devoured 
them  tooth  and  nail.  Many  a  dainty  repast  have 
I  made  of  the  "  New  Eloise," — the  description  of 
the  kiss ;  the  excursion  on  the  water  ;  the  letter  of 
St.  Preux,  recalling  the  time  of  their  first  loves : 
and  the  account  of  Julia's  death  ;  these  I  read  over 
and  over  again  with  unspeakable  delight  and 
wonder.  Some  years  after,  when  I  met  with  this 
work  again,  I  found  I  had  lost  nearly  my  whole 
relish  for  it  (except  some  few  parts)  and  was,  I 
remember,  very  much  mortified  with  the  change 
in  my  taste,  which  I  sought  to  attribute  to  the 
smallness  and  gilt  edges  of  the  edition  I  had 
206 


bought,  and  its  being  perfumed  with  rose-leaves. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  gravity,  the  solemnity 
with  which  I  carried  home  and  read  the  "Dedica- 
tion of  the  Social  Contract,"  with  some  other 
pieces  of  the  same  author,  which  I  picked  up  at  a 
stall  in  a  coarse  leathern  cover.  Of  the  Con- 
fessions I  have  spoken  elsewhere,  and  may  repeat 
what  I  have  said — "  Sweet  is  the  dew  of  their 
memory,  and  pleasant  the  balm  of  their  recollec- 
tion." Their  beauties  are  not "  scattered  like  stray- 
gifts  o'er  the  earth,"  but  sown  thick  on  the  page, 
rich  and  rare.  I  wish  I  had  never  read  the 
"Emilius,"  or  read  it  with  less  implicit  faith.  I 
had  no  occasion  to  pamper  my  natural  aversion  to 
affectation  or  pretence,  by  romantic  and  artificial 
means.  I  had  better  have  formed  myself  on  the 
model  of  Sir  Fopling  Flutter. 

There  is  a  class  of  persons  whose  virtues  and 
most  shining  qualities  sink  in,  and  are  concealed 
by,  an  absorbent  ground  of  modesty  and  reserve ; 
and  such  a  one  I  do,  without  vanity,  profess  myself. 
Now  these  are  the  very  persons  who  are  likely  to 
attach  themselves  to  the  character  of  Emilius,  and 
to  whom  it  is  sure  to  be  the  bane.  This  dull, 
phlegmatic,  retiring  humour  is  not  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  corrected,  but  confirmed  and  rendered 
desperate,  by  being  in  that  work  held  up  as  an 
object  of  imitation,  as  an  example  of  simplicity 
and  magnanimity — by  coming  upon  us  with  all  the 
recommendations  of  novelty,  surprise,  and  superi- 
ority to  the  prejudices  of  the  world — by  being 
207 


stuck  upon  a  pedestal,  made  amiable,  dazzling, 
a  leurre  de  dupe!  The  reliance  on  solid  worth 
which  it  inculcates,  the  preference  of  sober  truth 
to  gaudy  tinsel,  hangs  like  a  mill-stone  round  the 
necks  of  imagination — "a  load  to  sink  a  navy" — 
impedes  our  progress,  and  blocks  up  every  prospect 
in  life.  A  man,  to  get  on,  to  be  successful, 
conspicuous,  applauded,  should  not  retire  upon 
the  centre  of  his  conscious  resources,  but  be 
always  at  the  circumference  of  appearances.  He 
must  envelope  himself  in  a  halo  of  mystery — he 
must  walk  with  a  train  of  self-conceit  following 
him — he  must  not  strip  himself  to  a  buff  jerkin,  to 
the  doublet  and  hose  of  his  real  merits,  but  must 
surround  himself  with  a  cortege  of  prejudices, 
like  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac — he  must  seem  any- 
thing but  what  he  is,  and  then  he  may  pass  for 
anything  he  pleases.  The  world  loves  to  be 
amused  by  hollow  professions,  to  be  deceived  by 
flattering  appearances,  to  live  in  a  state  of  halluci- 
nation ;  and  can  forgive  everything  but  the  plain, 
simple,  downright  honest  truth — such  as  we  see 
it  chalked  out  in  the  character  of  Emilius.  — To 
return  from  this  digression,  which  is  a  little  out  of 
place  here. 

Books  have  in  a  great  measure  lost  their  power 
over  me :  nor  can  I  revive  the  same  interest  in 
them  as  formerly.  I  perceive  when  a  thing  is 
good,  rather  than  feel  it.  It  is  true 

"  Marcian  Colonna  "  is  a  dainty  book 
208 


and  the  reading  of  Mr.  Keats'  "Eve  of  Saint 
Agnes "  lately  made  one  regret  that  I  was  not 
young  again.  The  beautiful  and  tender  images 
there  conjured  up,  "come  like  shadows — so  de- 
part." The  "tiger-moth's  wings"  which  he  has 
spread  over  his  rich  poetic  blazonry,  just  flit  across 
my  fancy  ;  the  gorgeous  twilight  window  which  he 
has  painted  over  and  over  again  in  his  verse,  to  me 
"  blushes  "  almost  in  vain  "  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings."  I  know  how  I  should  have  felt  at  one 
time  in  reading  such  passages  ;  and  that  is  all. 
The  sharp  luscious  flavour,  the  fine  aroma  is  fled, 
and  nothing  but  the  stalk,  the  bran,  the  husk  of 
literature  is  left.  If  anyone  were  to  ask  me  what 
I  read  now,  I  might  answer  with  my  Lord  Hamlet 
in  the  play — "Words,  words,  words." — "What  is 
the  matter  ?  "— "  Nothing  !  "—They  have  scarce  a 
meaning.  But  it  was  not  always  so.  There  was  a 
time  when  to  my  thinking,  every  word  was  a  flower 
or  a  pearl,  like  those  which  dropped  from  the 
mouth  of  the  little  peasant-girl  in  the  fairy-tale,  or 
like  those  which  fall  from  the  great  preacher  in 
the  Caledonian  Chapel.  I  drank  of  the  stream  of 
knowledge  that  tempted,  but  did  not  mock  my 
lips,  as  of  the  river  of  life,  freely.  How  eagerly 
I  slaked  my  thirst  of  German  sentiment,  "as  the 
hart  that  panteth  for  the  water-springs  "  ;  how  I 
bathed  and  revelled,  and  added  my  floods  of  tear 
to  Goethe's  "Sorrows  of  Werter,"  and  to  "  Schiller's 
"Robbers"— 

Giving  my  stock  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much  ! 
P  209 


I  read,  and  attended  with  all  my  mind  to  Cole- 
ridge's fine  Sonnet,  beginning — 

Schiller  !  that  hour  I  would  have  wished  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent, 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tow'r  time-rent, 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish' d  father's  cry  ! 

I  believe  I  may  date  my  insight  into  the 
mysteries  of  poetry  from  the  commencement  of 
my  acquaintance  with  the  authors  of  the  "  Lyrical 
Ballads  "  ;  at  least  my  discriminaton  of  the  higher 
sorts — not  my  predilection  for  such  writers  as 
Goldsmith  or  Pope :  nor  do  I  imagine  they  will 
say  I  got  my  liking  for  the  Novelists,  or  the 
comic  writers, — for  the  character  of  Valentine, 
Tattle,  or  Miss  Prue  from  them.  If  so,  I  must 
have  got  from  them  what  they  never  had  them- 
selves. In  points  where  poetic  diction  and  con- 
ception are  concerned,  I  may  be  at  a  loss,  and 
liable  to  be  imposed  upon :  but  in  forming  an 
estimate  of  passages  relating  to  common  life  and 
manners,  I  cannot  think  I  am  a  plagiarist  from 
any  man.  I  there  "know  my  cue  without  a 
prompter."  I  may  say  of  such  studies — Intus  et 
in  cute.  I  am  just  able  to  admire  those  literal 
touches  of  observation  and  description,  which  per- 
sons of  loftier  pretensions  overlook  and  despise. 
I  think  I  comprehend  something  of  the  character- 
istic part  of  Shakspere  ;  and  in  him,  indeed,  all 
is  characteristic,  even  the  nonsense  and  poetry. 
I  believe  it  was  the  celebrated  Sir  Humphry  Davy 

210 


who  used  to  say,  that  Shakspere  was  rather  a  meta- 
physician than  a  poet.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not  ill 
said.  I  wish  that  I  had  sooner  known  the  dra- 
matic writers  contemporary  with  Shakspere ;  for 
in  looking  them  over  about  a  year  ago,  I  almost 
revived  my  old  passion  for  reading,  and  my 
delight  in  old  books,  though  they  were  very  nearly 
new  to  me.  The  Periodical  Essayists  I  read  long 
ago.  The  Spectator  I  liked  extremely,  but  the 
Tatler  took  my  fancy  most.  I  read  the  others 
soon  after,  the  Rambler,  the  Adventurer,  the 
World,  the  Connoisseur ;  I  was  not  sorry  to  get 
to  the  end  of  them,  and  have  no  desire  to  go 
regularly  through  them  again.  I  consider  myself 
a  thorough  adept  in  Richardson.  I  like  the 
longest  of  his  novels  best,  and  think  no  part  of 
them  tedious  :  nor  should  I  ask  to  have  anything 
better  to  do  than  to  read  them  from  beginning  to 
end,  to  take  them  up  when  I  choose,  and  lay 
them  down  when  I  was  tired,  in  some  old  family 
mansion  in  the  country,  till  every  word  and  every 
syllable  relating  to  the  bright  Clarissa,  the  divine 
Clementina,  the  beautiful  Pamela,  "  with  every 
trick  and  line  of  their  sweet  favour,"  were  once 
more  "graven  in  my  heart's  table."  I  have  a 
sneaking  kindness  for  Mackenzie's  "  Julia  de  Rou- 
bigne*" — for  the  deserted  mansion,  and  straggling 
gilliflowers  on  the  mouldering  garden  wall ;  and 
still  more  for  his  "  Man  of  Feeling "  ;  not  that  it 
is  better,  nor  so  good ;  but  at  the  time  I  read  it 
I  sometimes  thought  of  the  heroine,  Miss  Walton, 

211 


and  Miss  Railton  together,  and  "that  ligament, 
fine  as  it  was,  was  never  broken."  One  of  the  poets 
that  I  have  always  read  with  most  pleasure,  and 
can  wander  about  in  for  ever  with  a  sort  of 
voluptuous  indolence  is  Spenser ;  and  I  like 
Chaucer  even  better.  The  only  writer  among  the 
Italians  I  can  pretend  to  any  knowledge  of  is 
Boccaccio,  and  of  him  I  cannot  express  half  my 
admiration.  His  story  of  the  Hawk  I  could  read 
and  think  of  from  day  to  day,  just  as  I  would  look 
at  a  picture  of  Titian's  ! 

I  remember,  as  long  ago  as  the  year  1798,  going 
to  a  neighbouring  town  (Shrewsbury,  where 
Farquhar  has  laid  the  plot  of  his  "  Recruiting 
Officer")  and  bringing  home  with  me,  "at  one 
proud  swoop,"  a  copy  of  Milton's  "  Paradise 
Lost,"  and  another  of  Burke's  "  Reflections  on  the 
French  Revolution  " — both  of  which  I  have  still ; 
and  I  still  recollect,  when  I  see  the  covers,  the 
pleasure  with  which  I  dipped  into  them  as  I 
returned  with  my  double  prize.  I  was  set  up  for 
one  while.  That  time  is  past,  "  with  all  its  giddy 
raptures "  :  but  I  am  still  anxious  to  preserve  its 
memory,  "embalmed  with  odours."  With  respect 
to  the  first  of  these  works,  I  would  be  permitted 
to  remark  here  in  passing,  that  it  is  a  sufficient 
answer  to  the  German  criticism  which  has  since 
been  started  against  the  character  of  Satan  (viz. 
that  it  is  not  one  of  disgusting  deformity,  or  pure, 
defecated  malice)  to  say  that  Milton  has  there 
drawn,  not  the  abstract  principle  of  evil,  not  a  devil 

212 


incarnate,  but  a  fallen  angel.  This  is  the  scriptural 
account,  and  the  poet  has  followed  it.  We  may 
safely  retain  such  passages  as  that  well-known 

one — 

His  form  had  not  yet  lost 

All  her  original  brightness  :  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruin'd  :  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd — 

for  the  theory,  which  is  opposed  to  them  "falls 
flat  upon  the  grunsel  edge,  and  shames  its  wor- 
shippers." Let  us  hear  no  more  then  of  this 
monkish  cant,  and  bigoted  outcry  for  the  restora- 
tion of  the  horns  and  tail  of  the  devil !  Again  as 
to  the  other  work,  Burke's  "Reflections,"  I  took 
a  particular  pride  and  pleasure  in  it,  and  read  it 
to  myself  and  others  for  months  afterwards.  I  had 
reason  for  my  prejudice  in  favour  of  this  author. 
To  understand  an  adversary  is  some  praise  :  to 
admire  him  is  more.  I  thought  I  did  both :  I 
knew  I  did  one :  From  the  first  time  I  ever  cast 
my  eyes  on  anything  of  Burke's  I  said  to  myself, 
"  This  is  true  eloquence  :  this  is  a  man  pouring 
out  his  mind  on  paper."  All  other  style  seemed  to 
me  pedantic  and  impertinent.  Dr.  Johnson's  was 
walking  on  stilts ;  and  even  Junius's  (who  was  at 
that  time  a  favourite  with  me)  with  all  his  terseness, 
shrunk  up  into  little  antithetic  points  and  well 
trimmed  sentences.  But  Burke's  style  was  forked 
and  playful  as  the  lightning,  crested  like  the  ser- 
pent. He  delivered  plain  things  on  a  plain  ground  ; 
but  when  he  rose,  there  was  no  end  of  his  flights 
213 


and  circumgyrations — and  in  this  Letter  to  a  Noble 
Lord  "  he  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cot,  fluttered  his 
Volscians"  (The  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of 
Lauderdale)  "in  Corioli."  I  did  not  care  for  his 
doctrines.  I  was  then,  and  am  still,  proof  against 
their  contagion  ;  but  I  admired  the  author,  and 
was  considered  as  not  a  very  staunch  partisan  of 
the  opposite  side,  though  I  thought  myself  that  an 
abstract  proposition  was  one  thing — a  masterly 
transition,  a  brilliant  metaphor,  another.  I  con- 
ceived too  that  he  might  be  wrong  in  his  main 
argument,  and  yet  deliver  fifty  truths  in  arriving  at 
a  false  conclusion.  I  remember  Coleridge  assur- 
ing me,  as  a  poetical  set  off  to  my  sceptical 
admiration,  that  Wordsworth  had  written  an  Essay 
on  Marriage,  which,  for  manly  thought  and  nervous 
expression,  he  deemed  incomparably  superior.  As 
I  had  not,  at  that  time,  seen  any  specimens  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  prose  style,  I  could  not  express  my 
doubts  on  the  subject.  If  there  are  greater  prose 
writers  than  Burke,  they  either  lie  out  of  my  course 
of  study,  or  are  beyond  my  sphere  of  compre- 
hension. I  am  too  old  to  be  a  convert  to  a  new 
mythology  of  genius.  The  niches  are  occupied, 
the  tables  are  full.  If  such  is  still  my  admiration 
of  this  man's  misapplied  powers,  what  must  it  have 
been  at  a  time  when  I  myself  was  in  vain  trying, 
year  after  year,  to  write  a  single  Essay,  nay,  a  single 
page  or  sentence  :  when  I  regarded  the  wonders 
of  his  pen  with  the  longing  eyes  of  one  who  is 
dumb  and  a  changeling  :  and  when,  to  be  able  to 
214 


convey  the  slightest  conception  of  my  meaning  to 
others  in  words,  was  the  height  of  an  almost  hope- 
less ambition  !  But  I  never  measured  others1 
excellencies  by  my  own  defects :  though  a  sense 
of  my  own  incapacity,  and  of  the  steep  impassable 
ascent  from  me  to  them,  made  me  regard  them  with 
greater  awe  and  fondness.  I  have  thus  run  through 
most  of  my  early  studies  and  favourite  authors, 
some  of  whom  I  have  since  criticised  more  at 
large.  Whether  those  observations  will  survive  me, 
I  neither  know,  nor  do  I  much  care  :  but  to  the 
works  themselves,  "  worthy  of  all  acceptation,'1 
and  to  the  feelings  they  have  always  excited  in  me, 
since  I  could  distinguish  a  meaning  in  language, 
nothing  shall  ever  prevent  me  from  looking  back 
with  gratitude  and  triumph.  To  have  lived  in 
the  cultivation  of  an  intimacy  with  such  works, 
and  to  have  familiarly  relished  such  names,  is  not 

to  have  lived  quite  in  vain. 

W.  Hazlitt. 

A  Mind  Content        -^y        ^>        ^> 
(From  The  Farewell  to  Folly] 

C  WEET  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content ; 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown  * 
Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent ; 
The  poor  estate  scorns  fortune's  angry  frown  : 
Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep,  such 

bliss, 
Beggars  enjoy  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

215 


The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest ; 

The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care  ; 
The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best : 

The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music's  fare : 
Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss  : 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

jR.  Greene. 


An  Invocation        <^        ^>        <^» 

(From  lonica) 

T  NEVER  prayed  for  Dryads,  to  haunt  the  woods 

again  ; 
More  welcome  were  the  presence   of  hungering 

thirsting  men, 
Whose  doubts  we  could  unravel,  whose  hopes  we 

could  fulfil, 

Our  wisdom  tracing  backward,  the  river  to  the  rill ; 
Were  such  beloved  forerunners  one  summer  day 

restored, 
Then,  then  we  might  discover  the  Muse's  mystic 

hoard. 

O  dear  divine  Comatas,  I  would  that  thou  and  I 
Beneath    this    broken    sunlight    this   leisure    day 

might  lie  ; 
Where  trees  from  distant  forests,   whose  names 

were  strange  to  thee, 
Should  bend  their  amorous  branches  within  thy 

reach  to  be, 

216 


And  flowers  thy  Hellas  knew  not,  which  art  hath 

made  more  fair, 
Should  shed  their  shining  petals  upon  thy  fragrant 

hair. 

Then  thou  shouldst  calmly  listen  with  ever  chang- 
ing looks 

To  songs  of  younger  minstrels  and  plots  of  modern 
books 

And  wonder  at  the  daring  of  poets  later  born, 

Whose  thoughts  are  unto  thy  thoughts  as  noon- 
tide is  to  morn  ; 

And  little  shouldst  thou  grudge  them  their  greater 
strength  of  soul, 

Thy  partners  in  the  torch  race  though  nearer  to 
the  goal. 

As  when  ancestral  portraits  look  gravely  from  the 
walls 

Upon  the  youthful  baron  who  treads  their  echoing 
halls  ; 

And  whilst  he  builds  new  turrets,  the  thrice  en- 
nobled heir 

Would  gladly  wake  his  grandsire  his  home  and 
feast  to  share  ; 

So  from  /Egean  laurels  that  hide  thine  ancient  urn 

I  fain  would  call  thee  hither,  my  sweeter  lore  to 
learn. 

Or  in  thy  cedarn  prison  thou  waitest  for  the  bee  : 
Ah,  leave  that  simple  honey,  and  take  thy  food 
from  me. 

217 


My  sun  is  stooping  westward.    Entranced  dreamer 

haste : 
There's  fruitage  in  my  garden,  that  I  would  have 

thee  taste. 
Now  lift  the  lid  a  moment ;  now,  Dorian  shepherd, 

speak : 
Two  minds  shall  flow  together,  the  English  and 

the  Greek. 

W.  Cory. 


The  Philosopher  to  his  Mistress 

(From  Shorter  Poems] 

"DECAUSE  thou  canst  not  see, 

Because  thou  canst  not  know, 
The  black  and  hopeless  woe 
That  hath  encompassed  me  : 
Because,  should  I  confess 
The  thought  of  my  despair, 
My  words  would  wound  thee  less 
Than  swords  can  hurt  the  air : 

Because  with  thee  I  seem 
As  one  invited  near 
To  taste  the  faery  cheer 
Of  spirits  in  a  dream  ; 
Of  whom  he  knoweth  nought 
Save  that  they  vie  to  make 
All  motion,  voice  and  thought 
A  pleasure  for  his  sake  : 

218 


Therefore  more  sweet  and  strange 
Has  been  the  mystery 
Of  thy  long  love  to  me, 
That  doth  not  quit  nor  change, 
Nor  tax  my  solemn  heart, 
That  kisseth  in  a  gloom, 
Knowing  not  who  thou  art 
That  givest,  nor  to  whom. 

Therefore  the  tender  touch 
Is  more  :  more  dear  the  smile  : 
And  thy  light  words  beguile 
My  wisdom  overmuch  : 
And  O  with  swiftness  fly 
The  fancies  of  my  song 
To  happy  worlds  where  I 
Still  in  thy  love  belong. 

/?.  Bridges. 

Longing        «Cy        "^>        *£y        "v^x 

(From  Lyric  Poems) 


/^OME  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then, 

By  day  I  shall  be  well  again  ! 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 

Come,  as  thou  cam'st  a  thousand  times, 
A  messenger  from  radiant  climes, 
And  smile  on  thy  new  world,  and  be 
As  kind  to  others  as  to  me  ! 
219 


Or  as  thou  never  cam'st  in  sooth, 
Come  now,  and  let  me  dream  it  truth  ; 
And  part  my  hair  and  kiss  my  brow, 
And  say — My  love  !  why  sufferest  thou  ? 

Come  to  me  in  my  dreams  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again  I 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 

M.  Arnold. 


The  Red  Fisherman         *£y        *£y 

'"PHE  Abbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book, 

And  donned  his  sandal  shoon, 
And  wandered  forth  alone  to  look 

Upon  the  summer  moon  : 
A  starlight  sky  was  o'er  his  head, 

A  quiet  breeze  around  ; 
And  the  flowers  a  thrilling  fragrance  shed, 

And  the  waves  a  soothing  sound  ; 
It  was  not  an  hour,  nor  a  scene,  for  aught 

But  love  and  calm  delight ; 
Yet  the  holy  man  had  a  cloud  of  thought 

On  his  wrinkled  brow  that  night. 
He  gazed  on  the  river  that  gurgled  by, 

But  he  thought  not  of  the  reeds  ; 
He  clasped  his  gilded  rosary, 

But  he  did  not  tell  the  beads  : 
220 


If  he  looked  to  Heaven,  'twas  not  to  invoke 

The  Spirit  that  dwelleth  there  : 
If  he  opened  his  lips,  the  words  they  spoke 

Had  never  the  tone  of  prayer. 
A  pious  priest  might  the  Abbot  seem, 

He  had  swayed  the  crosier  well ; 
But  what  was  the  theme  of  the  Abbot's  dream, 

The  Abbot  were  loth  to  tell. 

Companion-less  for  a  mile  or  more, 

He  traced  the  windings  of  the  shore. 

Oh,  beauteous  is  that  river  still, 

As  it  winds  by  many  a  sloping  hill, 

And  many  a  dim  o'erarching  grove, 

And  many  a  flat  and  sunny  cove, 

And  terraced  lawns  whose  bright  arcades 

The  honey-suckle  sweetly  shades, 

And  rocks  whose  very  crags  seem  bowers, 

So  gay  they  are  with  grass  and  flowers. 

But  the  Abbot  was  thinking  of  scenery, 

About  as  much,  in  sooth, 
As  a  lover  thinks  of  constancy, 

Or  an  advocate  of  truth. 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  skies  in  wrath 

Grew  dark  above  his  head  ; 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  mossy  path 

Grew  damp  beneath  his  tread  ; 
And  nearer  he  came,  and  still  more  near, 

To  a  pool,  in  whose  recess 
The  water  had  slept  for  many  a  year, 

Unchanged  and  motionless ; 


From  the  river  stream  it  sped  away, 

The  space  of  half  a  rood  ; 
The  surface  had  the  hue  of  clay, 

And  the  scent  of  human  blood : 
The  trees  and  herbs  that  round  it  grew 

Were  venomous  and  foul ; 
And  the  birds  that  through  the  bushes  flew 

Were  the  vulture  and  the  owl : 
The  water  was  dark  and  rank 

As  ever  a  company  pumped  ; 
And  the  perch  that  was  netted  and  laid  on  the  bank 

Grew  rotten  while  it  jumped  : 
And  bold  was  he  who  thither  came 

At  midnight,  man  or  boy  ; 
For  the  place  was  cursed  with  an  evil  name, 

And  that  name  was  "  The  Devil's  Decoy  ! " 


The  Abbot  was  weary  as  Abbot  could  be, 
And  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  stump  of  a  tree ; 
When  suddenly  rose  a  dismal  tone — 
Was  it  a  song  or  was  it  a  moan  ? 

"  Oh,  ho  !     Oh,  ho ! 

Above,  below, 

Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go  : 
The  hungry  and  keen  to  the  top  are  leaping, 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleeping  : 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy, 
Broiling  is  rich  when  the  coals  are  ruddy ! " 
In  a  monstrous  fright,  by  the  murky  light, 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  right, 

222 


And  what  was  the  vision  close  before  him 
That  flung  such  a  sudden  stupor  o'er  him  ? 
'Twas  a  sight  to  make  his  hair  uprise, 

And  the  life  blood  colder  run  : 
The  startled  Priest  struck  both  his  thighs, 

And  the  Abbey  clock  struck  one. 

All  alone,  by  the  side  of  the  pool, 

A  tall  man  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool, 

Kicking  his  heels  in  the  dewy  sod, 

And  putting  in  order  his  reel  and  rod. 

Red  were  the  rags  his  shoulders  wore, 

And  a  high  red  cap  on  his  head  he  bore  ; 

His  arms  and  his  legs  were  long  and  bare ; 

And  two  or  three  locks  of  long  red  hair 

Were  tossing  about  his  scraggy  neck, 

Like  a  tattered  flag  o'er  a  splitting  wreck. 

It  might  be  time  or  it  might  be  trouble, 

Had  bent  that  stout  back  nearly  double : 

Sunk  in  their  deep  and  hollow  sockets 

That  blazing  couple  of  Congreve  rockets  : 

And  shrunk  and  shrivelled  that  tawny  skin 

Till  it  hardly  covered  the  bones  within. 

The  line  the  Abbot  saw  him  throw 

Had  been  fashioned  and  formed  long  ages  ago  : 

And  the  hands  that  worked  his  foreign  nest, 

Long  ages  ago  had  gone  to  their  rest : 

You  would  have  sworn,  as  you  looked  on  them, 

He  had  fished  in  the  flood  with  Ham  and  Shem  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys  and  creaking  of  locks 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
223 


Minnow  or  gentle,  worm  or  fly — 
It  seemed  not  such  to  the  Abbot's  eye  : 
Gaily  it  glittered  with  jewel  and  gem, 
And  its  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  diadem. 
It  was  fastened  a  gleaming  hook  about, 
By  a  chain  within,  and  a  chain  without ; 
The  Fisherman  gave  it  a  kick  and  a  spin, 
And  the  water  fizzed  as  it  tumbled  in. 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Strange  and  varied  sounds  had  birth  : 
Now  the  battle's  bursting  peal, 
Neigh  of  steed,  and  clang  of  steel : 
Now  an  old  man's  hollow  groan 
Echoed  from  the  dungeon  stone  : 
Now  the  weak  and  wailing  cry 
Of  a  stripling's  agony. 

Cold  by  this,  was  the  midnight  air ; 

But  the  Abbot's  blood  ran  colder, 
When  he  saw  a  gasping  knight  lie  there, 
With  a  gash  beneath  his  clotted  hair, 

And  a  hump  upon  his  shoulder. 
And  the  loyal  churchman  strove  in  vain 

To  mutter  a  paternoster  : 
For  he  who  writhed  in  mortal  pain, 
Was  camped  that  night  on  Bosworth  plain, 

The  cruel  Duke  of  Glo'ster  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys  and  creaking  of  locks 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
224 


It  was  a  haunch  of  princely  size, 
Filling  with  fragrance  earth  and  skies. 
The  corpulent  Abbot  knew  full  well 
The  swelling  form  and  the  steaming  smell ; 
Never  a  monk  that  wore  a  hood 
Could  better  have  guessed  the  very  wood 
Where  the  noble  hart  had  stood  at  bay, 
Weary  and  wounded  at  close  of  day. 

Sounded  then  the  noisy  glee, 
Of  a  revelling  company  ; 
Sprightly  story,  wicked  jest, 
Rated  servant,  greeted  guest, 
Flow  of  wine  and  flight  of  cork, 
Stroke  of  knife  and  thrust  of  fork : 
But  where'er  the  board  was  spread, 
Grace  I  ween  was  never  said  ! 

Pulling  and  tugging,  the  Fisherman  sate  ; 

And  the  Priest  was  ready  to  vomit, 
When  he  hauled  out  a  gentleman,  fine  and  fat, 
With  a  belly  as  big  as  a  brimming  vat, 

And  a  nose  as  red  as  a  comet. 
(<  A  capital  stew )?  the  Fisherman  said, 

"  With  cinnamon  and  sherry  !  " 
And  the  Abbot  turned  away  his  head, 
For  his  brother  was  lying  before  him  dead, 

The  Mayor  of  St.  Edmund's  Bury  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys  and  creaking  of  locks 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
Q  225 


It  was  a  bundle  of  beautiful  things, 

A  peacock's  tail,  and  a  butterfly's  wings, 

A  scarlet  slipper,  an  auburn  curl, 

A  mantle  of  silk,  and  a  bracelet  of  pearl, 

And  a  packet  of  letters  from  whose  sweet  fold 

Such  a  stream  of  delicate  odours  rolled, 

That  the  Abbot  fell  on  his  face  and  fainted, 

And  deemed  his  spirit  was  half-way  sainted. 

Sounds  seemed  dropping  from  the  skies, 
Stifled  whispers,  smothered  sighs. 
And  the  breath  of  vernal  gales, 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales  : 
But  the  nightingales  were  mute, 
Envious,  when  an  unseen  lute 
Tuned  the  music  of  its  chords 
Into  passion's  thrilling  words. 

"  Smile,  lady,  smile  ! — I  will  not  set 
Upon  thy  brow  the  coronet, 
Till  thou  wilt  gather  roses  white, 
To  wear  around  its  gems  of  light. 
Smile,  lady,  smile  ! — I  will  not  see 
Rivers  and  Hastings  bend  the  knee, 
Till  those  bewitching  lips  of  thine 
Will  bid  me  rise  in  bliss  from  mine. 
Smile,  lady,  smile  ! — for  who  would  win 
A  loveless  throne  through  guilt  and  sin  ? 
Or  who  would  reign  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
If  woman's  heart  were  rebel  still  ?" 
226 


One  jerk,  and  there  a  lady  lay, 

A  lady  wondrous  fair  ; 
But  the  rose  of  her  lip  had  faded  away, 
And  her  cheek  was  as  white  and  cold  as  clay, 

And  torn  was  her  raven  hair. 
"  Ah,  ah,"  said  the  Fisher,  in  merry  guise, 

"  Her  gallant  was  hooked  before  "  ; 
And  the  Abbot  heaved  some  piteous  sighs, 
For  oft  he  had  bless'd  those  deep  blue  eyes, 

The  eyes  of  Mistress  Shore. 

There  was  turning  of  keys  and  creaking  of  locks 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Many  the  cunning  sportsman  tried, 

Many  with  a  frown  he  flung  aside  : 

A  minstrel's  harp,  and  a  miser's  chest, 

A  hermit's  cowl,  and  a  baron's  crest, 

Jewels  of  lustre,  robes  of  price, 

Tomes  of  heresy,  loaded  dice, 

And  golden  cups  of  the  brightest  wine 

That  ever  was  pressed  from  the  Burgundy  vine. 

There  was  a  perfume  of  sulphur  and  nitre, 
As  he  came  at  last  to  a  bishop's  mitre  ! 
From  top  to  toe  the  Abbot  shook 
As  the  Fisherman  armed  his  golden  hook ; 
And  awfully  were  his  features  wrought 
By  some  dark  dream  or  wakened  thought. 
Look  how  the  fearful  felon  gazes 
On  the  scaffold  his  country's  vengeance  raises, 
When  the  lips  are  cracked,  and  the  jaws  are  dry, 
With  the  thirst  that  only  in  death  shall  die : 
227 


Mark  the  mariner's  frenzied  frown, 

As  the  swaling  wherry  settles  down, 

When  peril  has  numbed  the  sense  and  will, 

Though  the  hand  and  the  foot  may  struggle  still : 

Wilder  far  was  the  Abbot's  glance, 

Deeper  far  was  the  Abbot's  trance  : 

Fixed  as  a  monument,  still  as  air, 

He  bent  no  knee,  and  he  breathed  no  prayer  ; 

But  he  signed — he  knew  not  why  or  how, — 

The  sign  of  the  Cross  on  his  clammy  brow. 

There  was  turning  of  keys  and  creaking  of  locks 
As  he  stalked  away  with  his  iron  box. 

Oh  ho!  Oh  ho! 

The  cock  doth  crow  ; 
It  is  time  for  the  Fisher  to  rise  and  go. 
Fair  luck  to  the  Abbot,  fair  luck  to  the  shrine  ; 
He  hath  gnawed  in  twain  my  choicest  line  ; 
Let  him  swim  to  the  north,  let  him  swim  to  the 

south, 
The  Abbot  will  carry  my  hook  in  his  mouth. 

The  Abbot  had  preached  for  many  years, 

With  as  clear  articulation 
As  ever  was  heard  in  the  House  of  Peers 

Against  emancipation  : 
His  words  had  made  battalions  quake, 

Had  roused  the  zeal  of  martyrs  ; 
Had  kept  the  court  an  hour  awake 

And  the  king  himself  three  quarters  : 
228 


But  ever,  from  that  hour,  'tis  said, 

He  stammered  and  he  stuttered 
As  if  an  axe  went  through  his  head, 

With  every  word  he  uttered. 
He  stuttered  o'er  blessing,  he  stuttered  o'er  ban, 
He  stuttered,  drunk  or  dry, 
And  none  but  he  and  the  Fisherman 

Could  tell  the  reason  why  ! 

W.  M.  Pracd. 


(From  Echoes) 

C\&  ever  the  knightly  years  were  gone 

With  the  old  world  to  the  grave, 
I  was  a  King  in  Babylon 
And  you  were  a  Christian  slave. 

I  saw,  I  took,  I  cast  you  by, 
I  bent  and  broke  your  pride  ; 

You  loved  me  well,  or  I  heard  them  lie, 
But  your  longing  was  denied. 

Surely  I  knew  that  by  and  by 
You  cursed  your  gods  and  died. 

And  a  myriad  suns  have  set  and  shone 

Since  then  upon  the  grave 
Decreed  by  the  King  in  Babylon 

To  her  that  had  been  his  slave. 
229 


The  pride  I  trampled  is  now  my  scathe, 

For  it  tramples  me  again. 
The  old  resentment  lasts  like  death, 

For  you  love,  yet  you  refrain. 
I  break  my  heart  on  your  hard  unfaith, 

And  I  break  my  heart  in  vain. 

Yet  not  for  an  hour  do  I  wish  undone 

The  deed  beyond  the  grave, 
When  I  was  a  King  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  virgin  slave. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


The  Latest  Decalogue        ^>        "O 
(From  Poems  on  Life  and  Duty) 

nTHOU  shalt  have  one  God  only  :  who 

Would  be  at  the  expense  of  two  ? 
No  graven  images  may  be 
Worshipped,  except  the  currency  : 
Swear  not  at  all ;  for,  for  thy  curse 
Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse  : 
At  Church  on  Sunday  to  attend 
Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  thy  friend : 
Honour  thy  parents  ;  that  is,  all 
From  whom  advancement  may  befall : 
Thou  shalt  not  kill ;  but  need'st  not  strive 
Officiously  to  keep  alive  : 
Do  not  adultery  commit  ; 
Advantage  rarely  comes  of  it : 
230 


Thou  shalt  not  steal ;  an  empty  feat 
When  'tis  so  lucrative  to  cheat : 
Bear  not  false  witness  ;  let  the  lie 
Have  time  on  its  own  wings  to  fly : 
Thou  shalt  not  covet ;  but  tradition 
Approves  all  forms  of  competition. 

A.  H.  Clough. 


A  Leave-taking        -o        ^>        *o 

(From  Poems  and  Ballads) 

T    ET  us  go  hence,  my  songs  ;  she  will  not  hear. 

Let  us  go  hence  together  without  fear ; 
Keep  silence  now,  for  singing  time  is  over, 
And  over  all  old  things  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her, 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear 
She  would  not  hear. 

Let  us  rise  up  and  part ;  she  will  not  know. 
Let  us  go  seaward  as  the  great  winds  go, 
Full  of  blown  sand  and  foam  :  what  help  is  here  ? 
There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so, 
And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear. 
And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to  show, 
She  would  not  know. 

Let  us  go  home  and  hence  ;  she  will  not  weep. 
We  gave  love  many  dreams  and  days  to  keep, 

231 


Flowers  without  scent,  and  fruits  that  would  not 

grow, 

Saying,  *  If  thou  wilt,  thrust  in  thy  sickle  and  reap.' 
All  is  reaped  now  ;  no  grass  is  left  to  mow  ; 
And  we  that  sowed,  though  all  we  fell  on  sleep, 
She  would  not  weep. 

Let  us  go  hence,  and  rest ;  she  will  not  love. 
She  shall  not  hear  us  if  we  sing  hereof, 
Nor  see  love's  ways,  how  sore  they  are  and  steep. 
Come  hence,  let  be,  lie  still ;  it  is  enough 
Love  is  a  barren  sea,  bitter  and  deep  ; 
And  though  she  saw  all  heaven  in  flower  above, 
She  would  not  love. 

Let  us  give  up,  go  down  ;  she  will  not  care. 
Though  all  the  stars  made  gold  of  all  the  air, 
And  the  sea  moving  saw  before  it  move 
One  moon-flower  making  all  the  foam-flowers  fair  ; 
Though  all  those  waves  went  over  us,  and  drove 
Deep  down  the  stifling  lips  and  drowning  hair, 
She  would  not  care. 

Let  us  go  hence,  go  hence  ;  she  will  not  see. 

Sing  all  once  more  together  :  surely  she, 

She  too,  remembering  days  and  words  that  were, 

Will  turn  a  little  toward  us,  sighing  ;  but  we, 

We  are  hence,  we  are  gone,  as  though  we  had  not 

been  there. 

Nay,  and  though  all  men  seeing  had  pity  on  me, 
She  would  not  see. 

A.  C.  Swinburne. 

232 


An  Invective  Against  Love        ^>        ^> 
(From  Davidsorfs  Poetical  Rhapsody) 

T   OVE  is  a  sour  delight,  a  sugared  grief, 
A  living  death,  an  ever-dying  life, 

A  breach  of  reason's  law,  a  secret  thief, 

A  sea  of  tears,  an  everlasting  strife  : 
A  bait  for  fools,  a  scourge  of  noble  wits, 
A  deadly  wound,  a  shot  that  ever  hits. 

Love  is  a  blinded  god,  a  wayward  boy, 

A  labyrinth  of  doubts,  an  idle  lust ; 

A  slave  to  beauty's  will,  a  witless  toy, 

A  ravenous  bird,  a  tyrant  most  unjust : 
A  burning  heat  in  frost,  a  flattering  foe, 
A  private  hell,  a  very  world  of  woe. 

Yet  mighty  Love  regard  not  what  I  say, 
Who  in  a  trance  do  lie,  reft  of  my  wits  ; 
But  blame  the  light  that  leads  me  thus  astray, 
And  makes  my  tongue  thus  rave  by  frantic  fits  : 
Yet  hurt  me  not,  lest  I  sustain  the  smart, 
Which  am  content  to  lodge  her  in  my  heart. 

T.  Watson. 


233 


WINTER 
FOR  DECLINE 


LASTLY,  cam.?  Winter  cloathed  all  in  frize, 
Chattering1  his  teeth  for  cold  that  did  him  chill ; 
Whil'st  on  his  hoary  beard  his  breath  did  freese, 
And  the  dull  drops,  that  from  his  purpled  bill 
As  from  a  limbeck  did  adown  distill. 
In  his  right  hand  a  tipped  staffe  he  held, 
With  which  his  feeble  steps  he  stayed  still : 
For  he  was  faint  with  cold,  and  weak  with  eld, 
That  scarse  his  loosed  limbes  he  hable  was  to  weld. 

Ed.  Spenser. 
Mutabilitiet  Canto  vii. 


Song        "^        <^        <^-        -^ 
(From  Third  Book  of  Airs,  1617) 

"M"  OW.  winter  nights  enlarge 

The  number  of  their  hours, 
And  clouds  their  storms  discharge 
Upon  the  airy  towers. 
Let  now  the  chimneys  blaze, 
And  cups  o'erflow  with  wine  ; 
Let  well  tuned  words  amaze 
With  harmony  divine, 
Now  yellow  waxen  lights 
Shall  wait  on  honey  love, 

While  youthful  revels,  masques,  and  courtly  sights 
Sleep's  leaden  spells  remove. 

This  time  doth  well  dispense 

With  lovers'  long  discourse  ; 

Much  speech  hath  some  defense 

Though  beauty  no  remorse. 

All  do  not  all  things  well : 

Some  measures  comely  tread, 

Some  knotted  riddles  tell, 

Some  poems  smoothly  read. 

The  summer  hath  its  joys 

And  winter  his  delights  ; 

Though  love  and  all  his  pleasures  are  but  toys, 

They  shorten  tedious  nights. 

Thomas  Camp  on, 

237 


The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life        <^» 
(From  Poems] 

TLJ  OW  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ! 
Whose  Armour  is  his  honest  thought : 
And  simple  Truth  his  utmost  Skill ! 

Whose  Passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepar'd  for  Death  ; 
Untide  unto  the  world,  by  care 
Of  Publick  fame,  or  private  breath. 

Who  envies  none  that  Chance  doth  raise, 
Nor  Vice  hath  ever  understood  : 
How  deepest  wounds  are  giv'n  by  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  State,  but  rules  of  good. 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed. 
Whose  Conscience  is  his  strong  retreat : 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  Oppressors  great. 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray, 
More  of  his  grace,  than  gifts  to  lend : 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  Religious  Book,  or  Friend. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall : 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  Lands, 
And  having  nothing  :  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  H.  Wotton. 
238 


Song  -Qy  ^y  O  <^> 

(From  Early  Poems) 

A    SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
*^     Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks  : 
For  at  eventide  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 
In  the  walks  : 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger  lily. 

The  air  is  damp  and  hush'd  and  close, 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death  ; 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger  lily. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


239 


Youth  and  Calm        <^y        ^y        "O 
(From  Early  Poems) 

'  n"MS  death  !  and  peace  indeed  is  here, 

And  ease  from  shame,  and  rest  from  fear. 
There's  nothing  can  dismarble  now 
The  smoothness  of  that  limpid  brow. 
But  is  a  calm  like  this,  in  truth, 
The  crowning  end  of  life  and  youth, 
And  when  this  boon  rewards  the  dead, 
Are  all  debts  paid,  has  all  been  said  ? 
And  is  the  heart  of  youth  so  light, 
Its  step  so  firm,  its  eyes  so  bright, 
Because  on  its  hot  brow  there  blows 
A  wind  of  promise  and  repose 
From  the  far  grave,  to  which  it  goes  ; 
Because  it  hath  the  hope  to  come, 
One  day  to  harbour  in  the  tomb  ? 
Ah  no,  the  bliss  youth  dreams  is  one 
For  daylight,  for  the  cheerful  sun, 
For  feeling  nerves  and  living  breath — 
Youth  dreams  a  bliss  on  this  side  death. 
It  dreams  a  rest,  if  not  more  deep, 
More  grateful  than  this  marble  sleep  ; 
It  hears  a  voice  within  it  tell : 
Calm's  not  life's  crown,  though  calm  is  well. 
;Tis  all  perhaps  which  man  acquires 
But  'tis  not  what  our  youth  desires. 

M.  Arnold. 


240 


The  Rose        <^        *^        <^-        ^y 
(From  Echoes) 

r\  GATHER  me  the  rose,  the  rose, 
^^^     While  yet  in  flower  we  find  it, 
For  summer  smiles,  but  summer  goes, 
And  winter  waits  behind  it  ! 

For  with  the  dream  foregone,  foregone, 

The  deed  forborne  for  ever, 
The  worm  regret  will  canker  on, 

And  Time  will  turn  him  never. 

So  well  it  were  to  love,  my  love, 

And  cheat  of  any  laughter 
The  fate  beneath  us  and  above, 

The  dark  before  and  after. 

The  myrtle  and  the  rose,  the  rose, 

The  sunshine  and  the  swallow, 
The  dream  that  comes,  the  wish  that  goes, 

The  memories  that  follow. 

W.  E.  Henley. 

(From  Early  Poems) 


/^OME  not  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  woulds't  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry, 

But  thou,  go  by. 
R  241 


Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest : 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of  Time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 

Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie, 
Go  by,  go  by. 

Lord  Tennyson, 

Advancing  Age        *cy        o        <Qy 
(From  Memoirs  of  My  Life  and  Writings] 

"\1THEN  I  contemplate  the  common  lot  of  mor- 
tality,  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  have 
drawn  a  high  prize  in  the  lottery  of  life.  The  far 
greater  part  of  the  globe  is  overspread  with  bar- 
barism or  slavery  :  in  the  civilized  world,  the  most 
numerous  class  is  condemned  to  ignorance  and 
poverty  ;  and  the  double  fortune  of  my  birth  in  a 
free  and  enlightened  country,  in  an  honourable 
and  wealthy  family,  is  the  lucky  chance  of  an  unit 
against  millions.  The  general  probability  is  about 
three  to  one,  that  a  newborn  infant  will  not  live  to 
complete  his  fiftieth  year.  I  have  now  passed 
that  age,  and  may  fairly  estimate  the  present  value 
of  my  existence  in  the  threefold  division  of  mind, 
body  and  estate.  The  first  and  indispensable 
requisite  of  happiness  is  a  clear  conscience,  un- 
sullied by  the  reproach  or  remembrance  of  an 
unworthy  action. 

Hie  murus  aheneus  esto, 

Nil  conscire  sibi,  nulla  pallescere  culpa. 

242 


I  am  endowed  with  a  cheerful  temper,  a  moderate 
sensibility,  and  a  natural  disposition  to  repose 
rather  than  to  activity :  some  mischievous  appe- 
tites and  habits  have  perhaps  been  corrected  by 
philosophy  or  time.  The  love  of  study,  a  passion 
which  derives  fresh  vigour  from  enjoyment,  sup- 
plies each  day,  each  hour,  with  a  perpetual  source 
of  independent  and  rational  pleasure ;  and  I  am 
not  sensible  of  any  decay  of  the  mental  faculties 
The  original  soil  has  been  highly  improved  by 
cultivation ;  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
some  flowers  of  fancy,  some  grateful  errors,  have 
not  been  eradicated  with  the  weeds  of  prejudice. 
Since  I  have  escaped  from  the  long  perils  of  my 
childhood  the  serious  advice  of  a  physician  has 
seldom  been  requisite.  "The  madness  of  super- 
fluous health  "  I  have  never  known,  but  my  tender 
constitution  has  been  fortified  by  time,  and  the 
inestimable  gift  of  the  sound  and  peaceful  slumbers 
of  infancy  may  be  imputed  both  to  the  mind  and 
body.  I  have  already  described  the  merits  of  my 
society  and  situation,  but  these  enjoyments  would 
be  tasteless  or  bitter  if  their  possession  were  not 
assured  by  an  annual  and  adequate  supply. 
According  to  the  scale  of  Switzerland  I  am  a  rich 
man ;  and  I  am  indeed  rich  since  my  income 
is  superior  to  my  expense,  and  my  expense  is  equal 
to  my  wishes.  My  friend  Lord  Sheffield  has  kindly 
relieved  me  from  the  cares  to  which  my  taste  and 
temper  are  most  adverse  :  shall  I  add  that  since 
the  failure  of  my  first  wishes,  I  have  never  enter- 

243 


tained  any  serious  thoughts  of  a  matrimonial  con- 
nection. I  am  disgusted  with  the  affectation  of 
men  of  letters  who  complain  that  they  have  re- 
nounced a  substance  for  a  shadow,  and  that  their 
fame  (which  sometimes  is  no  insupportable  weight) 
affords  a  poor  compensation  for  envy,  censure  and 
persecution.  My  own  experience,  at  least  has 
taught  me  a  very  different  lesson  :  twenty  happy 
years  have  been  animated  by  the  labour  of  my 
history,  and  its  success  has  given  me  a  name,  a 
rank,  a  character  in  the  world  to  which  I  should 
not  otherwise  have  been  entitled.  The  freedom  of 
my  writings  has  indeed  provoked  an  implacable 
tribe :  but  as  I  was  safe  from  the  stings,  I  was 
soon  accustomed  to  the  buzzing  of  the  hornets  : 
my  nerves  are  not  tremblingly  alive,  and  my 
literary  temper  is  so  happily  framed  that  I  am  less 
sensible  of  pain  than  of  pleasure.  The  rational 
pride  of  an  author,  may  be  offended,  rather  than 
flattered,  by  vague  indiscriminate  praise  :  but  he 
cannot,  he  should  not  be  indifferent  to  the  fair 
testimonies  of  private  and  public  esteem.  Even 
his  moral  sympathy  may  be  gratified  by  the  idea 
that  now  in  the  present  hour  he  is  imparting  some 
degree  of  amusement  or  knowledge  to  his  friends 
in  a  distant  land :  that  one  day  his  mind  will  be 
familiar  to  the  grandchildren  of  those  who  are  yet 
unborn.  I  cannot  boast  of  the  friendship  or  favour 
of  princes  :  the  patronage  of  English  literature  has 
long  since  devolved  on  our  booksellers,  and  the 
measure  of  their  liberality  is  the  least  ambiguous 
244 


test  of  our  common  success.  Perhaps  the  golden 
mediocrity  of  my  fortune  has  contributed  to  fortify 
my  application.  The  present  is  a  fleeting  moment, 
the  past  is  no  more  ;  and  our  prospect  of  futurity 
is  dark  and  doubtful.  This  day  may  possibly  be 
my  last :  but  the  laws  of  probability,  so  true  in 
general,  so  fallacious  in  particular,  still  allow  about 
fifteen  years.  I  shall  soon  enter  into  the  period 
which,  as  the  most  agreeable  of  his  long  life,  was 
selected  by  the  judgment  and  experience  of  the 
sage  Fontenelle.  His  choice  is  approved  by  the 
eloquent  historian  of  nature,  who  fixes  our  moral 
happiness  to  the  mature  season  in  which  our 
passions  are  supposed  to  be  calmed,  our  desires 
fulfilled,  our  ambition  satisfied,  our  fame  and  fortune 
established  on  a  solid  basis.  In  private  conversa- 
tion that  great  and  amiable  man  added  the  weight 
of  his  own  experience ;  and  this  autumnal  felicity 
might  be  exemplified  in  the  lives  of  Voltaire,  Hume 
and  many  other  men  of  letters.  I  am  far  more 
inclined  to  embrace  than  to  dispute  this  comfort- 
able doctrine.  I  will  not  suppose  any  premature 
decay  of  the  mind  or  body  :  but  I  must  reluctantly 
observe  that  two  causes,  the  abbreviation  of  time, 
and  the  failure  of  hope,  will  always  tinge  with 
a  browner  shade  the  evening  of  life. 

Edward  Gibbon. 


245 


The  Nameless  One        <^>        ^^x        -^ 

(From  Miscellaneous  Poems) 

"D  OLL  forth  my  soul  like  the  rushing  river, 

That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea, 
God  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 
My  soul  of  thee. 

Tell  thou  the  world,  when  my  bones  lie  whitening 

Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 
That  there  was  once  one  whose  veins  ran  lightning, 
No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  how  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night-hour, 

How  shone  for  him  through  his  griefs  and  gloom 
No  star  of  all  heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on  my  song,  and  to  after  ages 

Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 
He  would  have  taught  men  from  wisdom's  pages 
The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how  trampled,  derided,  hated, 

And  worn  by  weakness,  disease  and  wrong, 
He  fled  for  shelter  to  God  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song. 

With  song  which  always,  sublime  or  vapid, 
Flowed  like  a  rill  in  the  morning  beam  : 
Perchance  not  deep,  but  intense  and  rapid, 
A  mountain  stream. 
246 


Tell  how  this  nameless,  condemned  for  years  long 

To  herd  with  demons  from  Hell  beneath, 
Saw  things  which  made  him  with  groans  and  tears 
long 

For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how  with  genius  wasted, 

Betrayed  in  friendship,  befooled  in  love, 
With  spirit  shipwrecked  and  young  hopes  blasted, 
He  still,  still  strove. 

Till  spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others, 
And  some  whose  hands  should  have  wrought  for 

him, 

(If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers), 
His  mind  grew  dim. 

And  he  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 

The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginn  and  Burns, 
And  pawned  his  soul  for  the  devil's  dismal 
Stock  of  returns. 

But  yet  redeemed  it  in  days  of  darkness, 

And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath, 
When  death  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness 
Stood  on  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now  amid  wreck  and  sorrow, 

And  want  and  sickness  and  houseless  nights, 
He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow 
That  no  ray  lights. 
247 


And  lives  he  still  then  ?    Yes,  old  and  hoary 

At  thirty-nine,  from  despair  and  woe. 
He  lives  enduring  what  future  story 
Will  never  know. 

Him  grant  a  grave  to,  ye  pitying  noble, 

Deep  in  your  bosoms,  there  let  him  dwell, 
He  too  had  tears  for  all  souls  in  trouble 

Here  and  in  Hell. 

J.  C.  Mangan. 


All  is  Well        ^        <o        <^x 

(From  Poems  on  Life  and  Duty] 

YKfHATE'ER  you  dream  with  doubt  possest, 
Keep,  O  keep  it  snug  within  your  breast. 
And  lay  you  down  and  keep  your  rest ; 
Forget  in  sleep  the  doubt  and  pain, 
And  when  you  wake  to  work  again, 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  vessel  goes, 
And  where  and  whither  no  one  knows. 

'Twill  all  be  well :  no  need  of  care  ; 
Though  how  it  will,  and  when,  and  where, 
We  cannot  see,  and  can't  declare. 
In  spite  of  dreams,  in  spite  of  thought, 
'Tis  not  in  vain,  and  not  for  nought, 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  ship  it  goes, 
Though  where  and  whither  no  one  knows. 

A.  H.  Clough. 
248 


Old  and  New        ^>        -<^y        <^x 

(From  Ailes  d'AIouette) 

VX7HERE  are  they  hidden  all  the  vanished  years? 

Ah,  who  can  say  ! 
Where  is  the  laughter  flown  to,  and  the  tears  ? 

Perished  ?    Ah,  nay  ! 

Beauty  and  strength  are  born  of  sun  and  showers, 
These  too  shall  surely  spring  again  in  flowers. 

Yet  let  them  sleep,  nor  seek  herein  to  wed 

Effect  to  cause, 
For  Nature's  subtlest  influences  spread 

By  viewless  laws. 

This  only  seek,  that  each  new  year  may  bring, 
Born  of  past  griefs  and  joys,  a  fairer  spring. 

F.  W.  Bourdillon. 


To  -         *Cy         ^>         <^y         " 

(From  Juvenilia) 

A  LL  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 

Nor  wander'd  into  other  ways  : 
I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 
But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go  : 

Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far  —  far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice  and  answer  from  below. 
249 


Then  in  the  darkness  over  me 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape. 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape, 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  through  damp  holts  new-flushed  with  may 
Ring  sudden  scritches  of  the  jay, 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 

And  on  my  clay  her  darnel  grow  ; 
Come  only,  when  the  days  are  still, 

And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 

And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


Paraphrase  of  Horace        *o        -^y 
(From  Book  III,  Ode  29) 

IT  APPY  the  man  and  happy  he  alone, 
He  who  can  call  To-day  his  own  ; 
He  who  secure  within  can  say, 
To-morrow  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  liv'd  to-day  ; 
Be  fair  or  foul  or  rain  or  shine. 
The  joys  I  have  possess'd  in  spite  of  Fate  are  mine. 
Not  Heaven  itself  upon  the  Past  has  Power, 
But  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  I  have  had  my 
Hour. 

250 


Fortune,  that  with  malicious  joy, 
Does  Man,  her  Slave  oppress, 

Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 
Is  seldom  pleas'd  to  bless. 

Still  various,  and  unconstant  still, 

But  with  an  Inclination  to  be  ill ; 

Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  Strife, 

And  makes  a  lottery  of  Life. 

I  can  enjoy  her  while  she's  kind  ; 

But  when  she  dances  in  the  Wind, 

And  shakes  her  wings  and  will  not  stay, 

I  puff  the  Prostitute  away  : 

The  little  or  the  much  she  gave  is  quietly  resigned. 
Content  with  Poverty,  my  Soul  I  arm : 
And  Virtue,  tho'  in  Rags,  will  keep  me  warm. 

J.  Drydcn. 


To  R.  T.  H.  B.         <^x        <^x        -^ 

(From  Echoes] 

/^\UT  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
^^^  Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole, 
I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud  ; 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

251 


Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 
I  am  the  master  of  my  fate  : 

I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

W.  £.  Henley. 

Content        *^>        xc>        -^        ^> 
(From  Lyrics,  Elegies,  etc.    Ed.  :    W.  Byrcl,  1587) 

TV/TY  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is. 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find, 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss, 
That  God  or  Nature  hath  assigned. 
Though  much  I  want,  that  most  would  have ; 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  port,  nor  wealthy  store, 
No  force  to  win  a  victory, 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 
No  shape  to  win  a  loving  eye  : 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall. 
For  why  !     My  mind  despise  them  all. 

I  see  that  plenty  surfeits  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall ; 
I  see  that  such  as  are  aloft, 
Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all : 
These  get  with  toil,  and  keep  with  fear. 
Such  cares  my  mind  can  never  bear. 
252 


I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway, 
I  wish  no  more  than  may  suffice. 
I  do  no  more  than  well  I  may. 
Look,  what  I  want,  my  mind  supplies ! 
So  thus  I  triumph  !  like  a  king  : 
My  mind  content  with  anything. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 
Nor  grudge  not  at  another's  gain, 
No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss, 
I  brook  that  is  another's  bane. 
I  fear  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend : 
I  loath  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

My  wealth  is  health,  and  perfect  ease  ; 
And  conscience  clear,  my  chief  defence  : 
I  never  seek,  by  bribes  to  please, 
Nor  by  desert,  to  give  offence  : 
Thus  do  I  live !  thus  will  I  die  ! 
Would  all  did  so,  as  well  as  I. 

Sir  Edward  Dyer  (?) 

Sir  Peter        ^>        *^>        -^y        *o 

(From  Headlong  Hall) 

T  N  his  last  binn  Sir  Peter  lies, 

Who  knew  not  what  it  was  to  frown  : 
Death  took  him  mellow,  by  surprise, 

And  in  his  cellar  stopp'd  him  down. 
Thro'  all  our  land  we  could  not  boast 

A  knight  more  gay,  more  prompt  than  he, 
To  rise  and  fill  a  bumper  toast, 

And  pass  it  round  in  three  times  three. 

253 


None  better  knew  the  feast  to  sway, 

Or  keep  mirth's  boat  in  better  trim  ; 
For  nature  had  but  little  clay 

Like  that  of  which  she  moulded  him. 
The  meanest  guest  that  graced  his  board 

Were  there  the  freest  of  the  free, 
His  bumper  toast  when  Peter  pour'd, 

And  pass'd  it  round  with  three  times  three. 

He  kept  at  true  good  humour's  mark 

The  social  flow  of  pleasure's  tide  : 
He  never  made  a  brow  look  dark, 

Nor  caused  a  tear  but  when  he  died. 
No  sorrow  round  his  tomb  should  dwell : 

More  pleased  his  gay  old  ghost  would  be, 
For  funeral  song,  and  passing  bell, 

To  hear  no  sound  but  three  times  three. 

T.  L.  Peacock. 

A  Forsaken  Garden        -Qy        ^y 
(From  Poems  and  Ballads.     Second  Series) 

TN  a  coign   of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and 

highland, 

At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward  and  lee, 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 

The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorns  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  its  blossomless  bed, 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  on  the  graves  of 
its  roses 

Now  lie  dead. 

254 


The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken, 
To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  land. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken, 
Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's 

hand? 
So  long  have  the  grey  bare  walks  lain  guestless, 

Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man  make  way, 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 
That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of 

time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken  ; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken, 
These  remain. 


Not  a  flower  to  be  prest  of  the  foot  that  falls  not ; 
As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are 

dry; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightingale 

calls  not, 

Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to  reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song, 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

255 


The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  wind  dishevels 
One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weeping, 
Haply  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 

Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  handfast   in   heart  as   they   stood,  "  Look 

thither" 
Did  he  whisper  ?     "  Look  forth  from  the  flowers 

to  the  sea ; 

For    the   foam    flowers    endure    when    the    rose- 
blossoms  wither, 

And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die — but  we  ?" 
And  the  same  wind  sang,  and  the  same  waves 

whitened, 

And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were  shed, 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that  had 
lightened, 

Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  lived  their  life  through,  and  then  went 

whither  ? 

And  were  one  to  the  end,  but  what  end  who  knows  ? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither, 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thmght  for  the  dead  to  love 
them  ? 

256 


What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave  ? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them 
Or  the  wave. 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons  here- 
after 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or 

weep, 

When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and 
laughter 

We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  for  ever  ; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise 

up  never, 

Who  have  left  nought  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,    stones,    and    thorns    of  the    wild   ground 

growing, 

While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall  be  : 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble, 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 
Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides 

humble 

The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink. 
S  257 


Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand 

spread, 
As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 

Death  lies  dead. 

A.  C.  Swinburne. 


Life        *^y        *v>        /Q>        ^^ 

T    IKE  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 

Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood  : 
E'en  such  is  man,  who  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to-night. 

The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies  ; 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies ; 
The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot, 

The  flight  is  past,  the  man  forgot. 

Bishop  King. 


Stanzas        *^x        ^>        <^ 

(From  Posthumous  Poems'] 

T  N  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 
Their  green  felicity : 

258 


The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look : 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

John  Keats. 

Death  and  Sleep        ^>        *o>        ^y 

(From  Religio  Medici] 

TVT  OW  for  my  life,  it  is  a  miracle  of  thirty  years, 
which  to  relate,  were  not  a  history,  but  a  piece 
of  poetry,  and  would  sound  to  common  ears  like  a 
fable.  For  the  world,  I  count  it  not  an  inn,  but  an 
hospital;  and  a  place  not  to  live,  but  to  die  in. 

259 


The  world  that  I  regard  is  myself;  it  is  the  micro- 
cosm of  my  own  frame  that  I  cast  mine  eye  on  : 
for  the  other,  I  use  it  but  like  my  globe,  and 
turn  it  round  sometimes  for  my  recreation.  Men 
that  look  upon  my  outside,  perusing  only  my 
condition  and  fortunes,  do  err  in  my  altitude :  for 
I  am  above  Atlas's  shoulders.  The  earth  is  a  point 
not  only  in  respect  of  the  heavens  above  us,  but  of 
that  heavenly  and  celestial  part  within  us.  That 
mass  of  flesh  that  circumscribes  me  limits  not  my 
mind.  That  surface  that  tells  the  heavens  it  hath 
an  end  cannot  persuade  me  that  I  have  any.  I 
take  my  circle  to  be  above  three  hundred  and  sixty. 
Though  the  number  of  the  ark  do  measure  my 
body,  it  comprehendeth  not  my  mind.  Whilst  I 
study  to  find  how  I  am  a  microcosm,  or  little  world, 
I  find  myself  something  more  than  the  great. 
There  is  surely  a  piece  of  divinity  within  us ; 
something  that  was  before  the  elements,  and  owes 
no  homage  unto  the  sun.  Nature  tells  me  I  am 
the  image  of  God,  as  well  as  Scripture.  He  that 
understands  not  thus  much  hath  not  his  intro- 
duction or  first  lesson,  and  is  yet  to  begin  the 
alphabet  of  man.  Let  me  not  injure  the  felicity  of 
others,  if  I  say  I  am  as  happy  as  any.  "  Ruat 
cesium^  fiat  voluntas  tua"  salveth  all ;  so  that, 
whatsoever  happens,  it  is  but  what  our  daily 
prayers  desire.  In  brief,  I  am  content ;  and  what 
should  Providence  add  more  ?  Surely  this  is  it  we 
call  happiness,  and  this  do  I  enjoy ;  with  this  I 
am  happy  in  a  dream,  and  as  content  to  enjoy  a 
260 


happiness  in  a  fancy,  as  others  in  a  more  apparent 
truth  and  reality.  There  is  surely  a  nearer  appre- 
hension of  anything  that  delights  us,  in  our  dreams, 
than  in  our  waked  senses.  Without  this  I  were 
unhappy ;  for  my  awaked  judgment  discontents 
me,  ever  whispering  unto  me  that  I  am  from  my 
friend,  but  my  friendly  dreams  in  the  night  requite 
me,  and  make  me  think  I  am  within  his  arms.  I 
thank  God  for  my  happy  dreams,  as  I  do  for  my 
good  rest ;  for  there  is  a  satisfaction  in  them  unto 
reasonable  desires,  and  such  as  can  be  content 
with  a  fit  of  happiness.  And  surely  it  is  not  a 
melancholy  conceit  to  think  we  are  all  asleep  in 
this  world,  and  that  the  conceits  of  this  life  are  as 
mere  dreams  to  those  of  the  next,  as  the  phantasms 
of  the  night  to  the  conceits  of  the  day. 

There  is  an  equal  delusion  in  both  ;  and  the  one 
doth  but  seem  to  be  the  emblem  or  picture  of  the 
other.  We  are  somewhat  more  than  ourselves  in 
our  sleeps  ;  and  the  slumber  of  the  body  seems 
to  be  but  the  waking  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  ligation 
of  sense,  but  the  liberty  of  reason  ;  and  our  waking 
conceptions  do  not  match  the  fancies  of  our  sleeps. 
At  my  nativity,  my  ascendant  was  the  watery  sign 
of  Scorpio.  I  was  born  in  the  planetary  hour 
of  Saturn,  and  I  think  I  have  a  piece  of  that 
leaden  planet  in  me.  I  am  no  way  facetious,  nor 
disposed  for  the  mirth  and  galliardise  of  company ; 
yet  in  one  dream  I  can  compose  a  whole  comedy, 
behold  the  action,  apprehend  the  jests,  and  laugh 
myself  awake  at  the  conceits  thereof.  Were  my 
261 


memory  as  faithful  as  my  reason  is  then  fruitful,  I 
would  never  study  but  in  my  dreams,  and  this 
time  also  would  I  chose  for  my  devotions :  but 
our  grosser  memories  have  then  so  little  hold  on 
our  abstracted  understandings,  that  they  forget  the 
story,  and  can  only  relate  to  our  awaked  souls  a 
confused  and  broken  tale  of  that  which  hath 
psssed.  Aristotle,  who  hath  written  a  singular 
tract  of  sleep,  hath  not  methinks  thoroughly 
defined  it :  nor  yet  Galen,  though  he  seems  to  have 
corrected  it ;  for  those  noctambales  and  night- 
walkers,  though  in  their  sleep,  do  yet  enjoy  the 
action  of  their  senses.  We  must  therefore  say 
that  there  is  something  in  us  that  is  not  in  the 
jurisdiction  of  Morpheus,  and  that  those  abstracted 
and  ecstatick  souls  do  walk  alout  in  their  own 
corpses,  as  spirits  with  bodies  they  assume,  wherein 
they  seem  to  hear,  see,  and  feel,  though  indeed  the 
organs  are  destitute  of  sense,  and  their  natures  of 
those  faculties  that  should  inform  them.  Thus  it 
is  observed,  that  men  sometimes,  upon  the  hour 
of  their  departure,  do  speak  and  reason  above 
themselves.  For  then  the  soul  beginning  to  be 
freed  from  the  ligaments  of  the  body,  begins  to 
reason  like  herself,  and  to  discourse  in  a  strain 
above  mortality. 

We  term  sleep  a  death  ;  and  yet  it  is  waking 
that  kills  us,  and  distroys  those  spirits  that  are  the 
house  of  life.  Tis  indeed  a  part  of  life  that  best 
expresseth  death ;  for  every  man  truly  lives,  so 
long  as  he  acts  his  nature,  or  some  way  makes 
262 


good  the  faculties  of  himself.  Themistocles  there- 
fore, that  slew  his  soldier  in  his  sleep,  was  a 
merciful  executioner,  'tis  a  kind  of  punishment 
the  mildness  of  no  laws  hath  invented ;  I  wonder 
the  fancy  of  Lucan  and  Seneca  did  not  discover  it. 
It  is  that  death  by  which  we  may  be  literally  said 
to  die  daily :  a  death  which  Adam  died  before  his 
mortality ;  a  death  whereby  we  live  a  middle  and 
moderating  point  between  life  and  death.  In  fine, 
so  like  death,  I  dare  not  trust  it  without  my  prayers, 
and  an  half  adieu  unto  the  world,  and  take  my 
farewell  in  a  colloquy  with  God  : — 

The  night  is  come,  like  to  the  day  ; 
Depart  not  thou,  great  God,  away. 
Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 
Eclipse  the  lustre  of  thy  light. 
Keep  still  in  my  horizon  ;  for  to  me 
The  sun  makes  not  the  day,  but  thee. 
Thou  whose  nature  cannot  sleep, 
On  my  temples  sentry  keep  ; 
Guard  me  'gainst  those  watchful  foes, 
Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close. 
Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest, 
But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  blest. 
While  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance : 
Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance : 
That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 
Awake  into  some  holy  thought, 
And  with  as  active  vigour  run 
My  course  as  doth  the  nimble  sun. 
Sleep  is  a  death  : — O  make  me  try, 
By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die  ! 

263 


And  as  gently  lay  my  head 

On  my  grave  as  now  my  bed. 

Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 

Awake  again  at  last  with  thee. 

And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 

Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 

These  are  my  drowsy  days  ;  in  vain 

I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again  : 

Oh  come  that  hour,  when  I  shall  never 

Sleep  again,  but  wake  for  ever  ! 

This  is  the  dormitive  I  take  to  bedward ;  I  need 
no  other  laudanum  than  this  to  make  me  sleep ; 
after  which  I  close  mine  eyes  in  security,  content 
to  take  my  leave  of  the  sun,  and  sleep  unto  the 
resurrection. 

Sir  T.  Browne. 

The  Dying  Man  in  his  Garden        -^y 

"\  1  7HY  Damon  with  the  forward  day 
Dost  thou  thy  little  spot  survey, 
From  tree  to  tree  with  doubtful  cheer, 
Pursue  the  progress  of  the  year, 
What  winds  arise,  what  rains  descend, 
When  thou  before  that  year  shalt  end  ? 

What  do  thy  noontide  walks  avail, 
To  clear  the  leaf,  and  pick  the  snail, 
Then  wantonly  to  death  decree 
An  insect  usefuller  than  thee  ? 
Thou  and  the  worm  are  brother  kind, 
As  low,  as  earthly,  and  as  blind. 
264 


Vain  wretch  !  cans't  thou  expect  to  see 

The  downy  peach  make  court  to  thee  ? 

Or  that  thy  sense  shall  ever  meet 

The  bean-flower's  deep  embosomed  sweet 

Exhaling  with  an  evening  blast  ? 

Thy  evening  then  will  all  be  past. 

Thy  narrow  pride,  thy  fancied  green 
(For  vanity  ;s  in  little  seen) 
All  must  be  left  when  Death  appears, 
In  spite  of  wishes,  groans,  and  tears; 
Nor  one  of  all  thy  plants  that  grow 

But  Rosemary  will  with  thee  go. 

G.  Sewell. 


In  My  Own  Album        *v>        *o 

THRESH  clad  from  heaven  in  robes  of  white, 

A  young  probationer  of  light, 
Thou  wert  my  soul,  an  Album  bright 

A  spotless  leaf :  but  thought  and  care, 

And  friend  and  foe,  in  foul  or  fair, 

Have  "  written  strange  defeatures  "  there ; 

And  Time  with  heaviest  hand  of  all, 
Like  that  fierce  writing  on  the  wall, 
Hath  stamped  sad  dates — he  can't  recall  j 

And  error  gilding  worse  designs — 
Like  speckled  snake  that  strays  and  shines — 
Betrays  his  path  by  crooked  lines  ; 
265 


And  vice  hath  left  his  ugly  blot ; 
And  good  resolves,  a  moment  hot, 
Fairly  begun — but  finished  not ; 

And  fruitless,  late  remorse  doth  trace — 
Like  Hebrew  lore  a  backward  pace — 
Her  irrecoverable  race. 

Disjointed  members  :  sense  unknit ; 
Huge  reams  of  folly,  shreds  of  wit ; 
Compose  the  mingled  mass  of  it. 

My  scalded  eyes  no  longer  brook 
Upon  this  ink-blurred  thing  to  look 
Go,  shut  the  leaves  and  clasp  the  book. 

C.  Lamb. 

Morality        <^>        <^        ^> 

(From  Lyric  Poems) 

\  \  7E  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 

The  fire  that  in  the  heart  resides  ; 

The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still, 

In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfill  d. 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone  ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 

Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return, 

All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 
266 


Then  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask  how  she  viewed  thy  self-controul, 
Thy  struggling,  task'd  morality — 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread, 

Whose  eye  thou  wert  afraid  to  seek, 

See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 

A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek  ! 

"  Ah,  child  ! "  she  cries,  "  that  strife  divine, 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine  ? 

"  There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow — 
I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep  : 
I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres  and  glow 
In  joy,  and  when  I  will,  I  sleep. 

Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 

I  saw,  I  felt  it  once — but  where  ? 

"  I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  Time, 
Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  Space  : 
I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime, 
I  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 

'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 

And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God." 

M.  Arnold. 


267 


Faery  Song*        *^x        -^y        o 

(From  Posthumous  Poems) 

OH  ED  no  tear — oh  shed  no  tear ! 

The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more — oh  weep  no  more  ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes — oh  dry  your  eyes, 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies — 
Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead — look  overhead 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red — 
Look  up,  look  up — I  flutter  now 
On  this  flush  pomegranate  bough. 
See  me — 'tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill. 
Shed  no  tear — oh  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu  !  Adieu  !  I  fly,  adieu  ! 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue — 

Adieu !   Adieu  ! 

/.  Keats. 


268 


Mimnermus  in  Church        ^>        ^> 
(From  lonica) 

Y'OU  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 

Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will ; 
But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life, 

So  sweet,  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still ; 
Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego,. 
This  warm  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above  : 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love  : 
Shew  me  what  angels  feel.  Till  then, 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,  ideal  quires, 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains  : 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remembered  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 

To  that  which  cannot  pass  away  ; 
All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 

By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 
But  O,  the  very  reason  why 
I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 

W.  Cory. 

269 


(From  The  Fatric  Queene,  B,  I.,  Canto  9) 

O  travailes  by  the  wearie  wand'ring  way, 
To  come  unto  his  wished  home  in  haste, 
And  meetes  a  flood  that  doth  his  passage  stay, 
Is  not  great  grace  to  help  him  overpast, 
Or  free  his  feet  that  in  the  myre  sticke  fast  ? 
Most  envious  man,  that  grieves  at  neighbours  good ; 
And  fond,  that  joyest  in  the  woe  thou  hast ! 
Why  wilt  not  let  him  passe,  that  long  hath  stood 
Upon  the  bancke,  yet  wilt  thy  selfe  not  pas  the  flood  ? 

"  He  there  does  now  enjoy  eternall  rest 
And  happy  ease,  which  thou  doest  want  and  crave, 
And  further  from  it  daily  wanderest ; 
What  if  some  little  payne  the  passage  have, 
That  makes  frayle  flesh  to  fear  the  bitter  wave, 
Is  not  short  payne  well  borne,  that  bringes  long  ease. 
And  layes  the  soule  to  sleepe  in  quiet  grave  ? 
Sleepe  after  toyle,  port  after  stormie  seas, 
Ease  after  warre,  death   after   life,  does  greatly 
please." 

Ed.  Spenser. 

Decay        *o        "C>        ^> 

(From  Aihs  d'Alouette) 

r\  LUSTRE  of  decay! 
^^^     The  daylight  glides  away 
In  glow  of  richer  glory  than  at  noon  ; 
Autumn  that  steals  the  flower, 
Gives  the  tree  golden  dower, 
And  crimson  walls  that  will  be  leafless  soon. 
270 


O  dimness  of  decay  ! 
The  sunset  hastes  away, 

And  leaves  the  world  the  lone  and  darkling  night ; 
And  autumn  when  he  flies 
Leaves  only  howling  skies, 
And  trees  that  toss  their  naked  boughs  in  fright. 

F.  W.  Bourdillon. 

A  Soldier's  Letter        ^y        ^> 
(From  The  Taller) 

'"PHERE  is  nothing  I  contemplate  with  greater 
pleasure  than  the  dignity  of  human  nature, 
which  often  shews  itself  in  all  conditions  of  life. 
For  notwithstanding  the  degeneracy  and  meanness 
that  is  crept  into  it,  there  are  a  thousand  occasions 
in  which  it  breaks  through  its  original  corruption, 
and  shews  what  it  once  was,  and  what  it  will  be 
hereafter.  I  consider  the  soul  of  man  as  the  ruin 
of  a  glorious  pile  of  building  ;  where,  amidst  great 
heaps  of  rubbish,  you  meet  with  noble  fragments 
of  sculpture,  broken  pillars  and  obelisks,  and  a 
magnificence  in  confusion.  Virtue  and  wisdom  are 
continually  employed  in  clearing  the  ruins,  removing 
their  disorderly  heaps,  recovering  the  noble  pieces 
that  lie  buried  under  them,  and  adjusting  them  as 
well  as  possible  according  to  their  ancient  symmetry 
and  beauty.  A  happy  education,  conversation  with 
the  finest  spirits,  looking  abroad  into  the  works  of 
nature,  and  observations  upon  mankind,  are  the 
great  assistances  to  this  necessary  and  glorious  work. 
271 


But  even  among  those  who  have  never  had  the 
happiness  of  any  of  these  advantages,  there  are 
sometimes  such  exertions  of  the  greatness  that  is 
natural  to  the  mind  of  man,  as  shew  capacities  and 
abilities,  which  only  want  these  accidental  helps  to 
fetch  them  out,  and  shew  them  in  a  proper  light. 
A  plebeian  soul  is  still  the  ruin  of  this  glorious 
edifice,  though  encumbered  with  all  its  rubbish. 
This  reflection  rose  in  me  from  a  letter  which  my 
servant  dropped  as  he  was  dressing  me,  and  which 
he  told  me  was  communicated  to  him,  as  he  is  an 
acquaintance  of  some  of  the  persons  mentioned  in 
it.  The  epistle  is  from  one  Sergeant  Hall  of  the 
Foot-guards.  It  is  directed  "  To  Sergeant  Cabe,  in 
the  Coldstream  regiment  of  Foot-guards,  at  the 
Red  Lettice,  in  the  Butcher  Row,  near  Temple  Bar." 
I  was  so  pleased  with  several  touches  in  it,  that 
I  could  not  forbear  shewing  it  to  a  cluster  of  critics, 
who,  instead  of  considering  it  in  the  light  I  have 
done,  examined  it  by  the  rules  of  epistolatory 
writing.  For  as  these  gentlemen  are  seldom  men 
of  any  great  genius,  they  work  altogether  by 
mechanical  rules,  and  are  able  to  discover  no 
beauties  that  are  not  pointed  out  by  Bouhours  and 
Rapin.  The  letter  is  as  follows  : — 

"  From  the  Camp  before  Mons,  26th  September. 
"  COMRADE, 

"  I  received  yours,  and  am  glad  yourself  and 
your  wife  are  in  good  health,  with  all  the  rest  of 
my  friends.     Our  battalion  suffered  more  than  I 
272 


could  wish  in  the  action.  But  who  can  withstand 
fate  ?  Poor  Richard  Stevenson  had  his  fate  with  a 
good  many  more.  He  was  killed  dead  before  we 
entered  the  trenches.  We  had  above  two  hundred 
of  our  battalion  killed  and  wounded.  We  lost  ten 
sergeants,  six  are  as  followeth — Jennings,  Castles, 
Roach,  Sherring,  Meyrick  and  my  son  Smith.  The 
rest  are  not  your  acquaintance.  I  have  received  a 
very  bad  shot  in  the  head  myself,  but  am  in  hopes, 
and  please  God,  I  shall  recover.  I  continue  in  the 
field,  and  lie  at  my  colonel's  quarters.  Arthur  is 
very  well ;  but  I  can  give  you  no  account  of  Elms  ; 
he  was  in  the  hospital  before  I  came  into  the  field. 
I  will  not  pretend  to  give  you  an  account  of  the 
battle,  knowing  you  have  a  better  in  the  prints. 
Pray  give  my  service  to  Mrs.  Cook  and  her  daughter, 
to  Mr.  StofTet  and  his  wife,  and  to  Mr.  Lyver,  and 
Thomas  Hogsdon  and  to  Mr.  Ragdell,  and  to  all 
my  friends  and  acquaintance  in  general  who  do  ask 
after  me.  My  love  to  Mrs.  Stevenson.  I  am  sorry 
for  the  sending  such  ill  news.  Her  husband  was 
gathering  a  little  money  together  to  send  to  his 
wife,  and  put  it  into  my  hands.  I  have  seven 
shillings  and  three  pence,  which  I  shall  take  care 
to  send  her.  Wishing  both  of  you  all  happiness, 
rest 

"  Your  assured  friend  and  comrade, 

"JOHN  HALL. 

"  We  had  but  an  indifferent  breakfast ;  but  the 
Mounseers  never  had  such  a  dinner  in  all  their  lives. 

"My  kind  love  to  my  comrade  Hinton,  and 
Mrs.  Morgan,  and  to  John  Brown  and  his  wife. 
T  273 


I  sent  two  shillings,  and  Stevenson  sixpence,  to 
drink  with  you  at  Mr.  Cook's  ;  but  I  have  heard 
nothing  from  him.  It  was  by  Mr.  Edgar. 

"  Corporal  Hartwell  desires  to  be  remembered  to 
you,  and  desires  you  to  enquire  of  Edgar,  what  is 
become  of  his  wife  Pegg ;  and  when  you  write,  to 
send  word  in  your  letter  what  trade  she  drives. 

"  We  have  here  very  bad  weather,  which  I  doubt 
will  be  an  hindrance  to  the  siege  ;  but  I  am  in 
hopes  we  shall  be  masters  of  the  town  in  a  little 
time,  and  then,  I  believe,  we  shall  go  to  garrison." 

I  saw  the  critics  prepared  to  nibble  at  my  letter  ; 
therefore  examined  it  myself,  partly  in  their  way, 
and  partly  my  own.  This  is,  said  I,  truly  a  letter, 
and  an  honest  representation  of  the  cheerful  heart 
which  accompanies  the  poor  soldier  in  his  warfare. 
Is  not  there  in  this  all  the  topic  of  submitting  to 
our  destiny  as  well  discussed  as  if  a  greater  man 
had  been  placed,  like  Brutus,  in  his  tent  at  mid- 
night, reflecting  on  all  the  occurrences  of  past  life, 
and  saying  fine  things  on  being  itself?  What 
Sergeant  Hall  knows  of  the  matter  is,  that  he 
wishes  there  had  not  been  so  many  killed  ;  and  he 
had  himself  a  very  bad  shot  in  the  head,  and 
should  recover  if  it  pleased  God.  But,  be  that  as 
it  will,  he  takes  care,  like  a  man  of  honour,  as  he 
certainly  is,  to  let  the  widow  Stevenson  know,  that 
he  had  seven  and  threepence  for  her,  and  that,  if 
he  lives,  he  is  sure  he  shall  go  into  garrison  at  last. 
I  doubt  not  but  all  the  good  company  at  the  Red 
Lettice  drank  his  health  with  as  much  real  esteem 
274 


as  we  do  of  any  of  our  friends.  All  that  I  am  con- 
cerned for  is,  that  Mrs.  Peggy  Hartwell  may  be 
offended  at  showing  this  letter,  because  her  con- 
duct in  Mr.  Hartwell's  absence  is  a  little  inquired 
into.  But  I  could  not  sink  that  circumstance, 
because  you  critics  would  have  lost  one  of  the 
parts  which  I  doubt  not  but  you  have  much  to  say 
upon,  whether  the  familiar  way  is  well  hit  in  this 
style  or  not  ?  As  for  myself,  I  take  a  very  particu- 
lar satisfaction  in  seeing  any  letter  that  is  fit  only 
for  those  to  read  who  are  concerned  in  it,  but 
especially  on  such  a  subject. 

If  we  consider  the  heap  of  an  army,  utterly  out 
of  all  prospect  of  rising  and  preferment,  as  they 
certainly  are,  and  such  great  things  executed  by 
them,  it  is  hard  to  account  for  the  motive  of  their 
gallantry.  But  to  me,  who  was  a  cadet  in  the  battle 
of  Coldstream  in  Scotland,  when  Monk  charged  at 
the  head  of  the  regiment,  now  called  Coldstream, 
from  the  victory  of  that  day  ;  I  remember  it  as  well 
as  if  it  was  yesterday ;  I  stood  on  the  left  of  old 
West,  who  I  believe  is  now  at  Chelsea  ;  I  say,  to 
me,  who  know  very  well  this  part  of  mankind,  I 
take  the  gallantry  of  private  soldiers  to  proceed 
from  the  same,  if  not  from  a  nobler  impulse  than 
that  of  gentlemen  and  officers.  They  have  the 
same  taste  of  being  acceptable  to  their  friends,  and 
go  through  the  difficulties  of  that  profession  by  the 
same  irresistible  charm  of  friendship,  and  the  com- 
munication of  joys  and  sorrows,  which  quickens 
the  relish  of  pleasure,  and  abates  the  anguish  of 
275 


pain.  Add  to  this,  that  they  have  the  same  regard 
to  fame,  though  they  do  not  expect  so  great  a  share 
as  men  above  them  hope  for :  but  I  will  engage 
Sergeant  Hall  would  die  ten  thousand  deaths, 
rather  than  a  word  should  be  spoken  at  the  Red 
Lettice,  or  any  part  of  the  Butcher  Row,  in 
prejudice  of  his  courage  or  honesty.  If  you  will 
have  my  opinion  then  of  the  Sergeant's  letter,  I 
pronounce  the  style  to  be  mixed,  but  truly  epis- 
tolatory  ;  the  sentiment  relating  to  his  own  wound 
is  in  the  sublime  ;  the  postscript  of  Pegg  Hartwell, 
in  the  gay  :  and  the  whole  the  picture  of  the  bravest 
sort  of  men,  that  is  to  say,  a  man  of  great  courage 
and  small  hopes. 

When  I  came  home  this  evening,  I  found,after  many 
attempts  to  vary  my  thoughts,  that  my  head  still  ran 
upon  the  subject  of  the  discourse  to-night  at  Will's.  I 
fell,  therefore,  into  the  amusement  of  proportioning 
the  glory  of  a  battle  among  the  whole  army,  and 
dividing  it  into  shares,  according  to  the  method  of  the 
million  lottery.  In  this  bank  of  fame,  by  an  exact  cal- 
culation, and  the  rules  of  political  arithmetic,  I  have 
allotted  ten  hundred  thousand  shares :  five  hundred 
thousand  of  which  is  the  due  of  the  general,  two 
hundred  thousand  I  assign  to  the  general  officers,  and 
two  hundred  thousand  more  to  all  the  commissioned 
officers  from  colonels  to  ensigns  ;  the  remaining 
hundred  thousand  must  be  distributed  between  the 
non-commissioned  officers  and  private  men :  accord- 
ing to  which  computation,  I  find  Sergeant  Hall  is 
to  have  one  share  and  a  fraction  of  two-fifths. 

276 


When  I  was  a  boy  at  Oxford,  there  was  among  the 
antiquities  near  the  theatre  a  great  stone,  on  which 
were  engraven  the  names  of  all  who  fell  in  the 
battle  of  Marathon.  The  generous  and  knowing 
people  of  Athens  understood  the  force  of  the  desire 
of  glory,  and  would  not  let  the  meanest  soldier 
perish  in  oblivion.  Were  the  natural  impulse  of 
the  British  nation  animated  with  such  monuments, 
what  man  would  be  so  mean,  as  not  to  hazard  his  life 
for  his  ten  hundred  thousandth  part  of  the  honour 
on  such  a  day  as  that  of  Blenheim  or  Blaregnies. 

X.  Steele. 
Youth  and  Age        *^y        ^o>        *o 

(From  Gryll  Grange} 

T  PLAYED  with  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing, 

When  I  was  six  and  you  were  four  ; 
When  garlands  weaving,  flower-balls  throwing, 
Were  pleasures  soon  to  please  no  more. 
Through  groves  and  meads,  o'er  grass  and  heather, 
With  little  playmates,  to  and  fro, 
We  wandered  hand  in  hand  together  ; — 
But  that  was  sixty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  lovely  roseate  maiden, 
And  still  our  early  love  was  strong  ; 
Still  with  no  care  our  days  were  laden, 
They  glided  joyously  along. 
And  I  did  love  you  very  dearly, 
How  dearly  words  want  power  to  show  ; 
I  thought  your  heart  was  touched  as  nearly  ; — 
But  that  was  fifty  years  ago. 
277 


Then  other  lovers  came  around  you, 

Your  beauty  grew  from  year  to  year, 

And  many  a  splendid  circle  found  you 

The  centre  of  its  glittering  sphere. 

I  saw  you  then,  first  vows  forsaking, 

On  rank  and  wealth  your  hand  bestow. 

Oh,  then  I  thought  my  heart  was  breaking  ; — 

But  that  was  forty  years  ago. 

And  I  lived  on,  to  wed  another ; 
No  cause  she  gave  me  to  repine  : 
And  when  I  heard  you  were  a  mother, 
I  did  not  wish  the  children  mine. 
My  own  young  flock,  in  fair  progression, 
Made  up  a  pleasant  Christmas  row, 
My  joy  in  them  was  past  expression  ; — 
But  that  was  thirty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  matron  plump  and  comely, 

You  dwelt  in  fashion's  brightest  blaze  ; 

My  earthly  lot  was  far  more  homely : 

But  I  too  had  my  festal  days. 

No  merrier  eyes  have  ever  glistened 

Around  the  hearth-stone's  wintry  glow, 

Than  when  my  youngest  child  was  christened  ;- 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago. 

Time  passed.     My  eldest  girl  was  married, 
And  I  am  now  a  grandsire  grey  ; 
One  pet  of  four  years  old  I've  carried 
Among  the  wild-flowered  meads  to  play. 
278 


In  our  old  fields  of  childish  pleasure, 
Where  now,  as  then,  the  cowslips  blow, 
She  fills  her  basket's  ample  measure, — 
And  that  is  not  ten  years  ago. 

But  though  first  love's  impassioned  blindness 

Has  passed  away  in  colder  light, 

I  still  have  thought  of  you  with  kindness, 

And  shall  do,  till  our  last  good  night. 

The  ever-rolling  silent  hours 

Will  bring  a  time  we  shall  not  know, 

When  our  young  days  of  gathering  flowers 

Will  be  an  hundred  years  ago. 

T.  L.  Peacock. 


(From  Hawthorn  and  Lavender] 

n^HE  rain  and  the  wind,  the  wind  and  the  rain — 

They  are  with  us  like  a  disease  : 
They  worry  the  heart,  they  work  the  brain, 

As  they  shoulder  and  clutch  at  the  shrieking 

pane, 
And  savage  the  helpless  trees. 

What  does  it  profit  a  man  to  know 

These  tattered  and  tumbling  skies 
A  million  stately  stars  will  show, 
And  the  ruining  grace  of  the  afterglow 

And  the  rush  of  the  wild  sunrise  ? 
279 


Ever  the  rain — the  rain  and  the  wind  ! 

Come,  hunch  with  me  over  the  fire, 
Dream  of  the  dreams  that  leered  and  grinned, 
Ere  the  blood  of  the  year  got  chilled  and  thinned, 

And  the  death  came  on  desire. 

W.  E.  Henley. 

Farewell  to  Arms        -o^        -<^y        <<^> 

(From  Polyhymnia  1590) 

T  T  IS  golden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turned  ; 

O  time,  too  swift,  O  swiftness  never  ceasing. 

His  youth  'gainst  time  and  age  hath  ever  spurned, 

But  spurned  in  vain ;  youth  waneth  by  increasing : 

Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but  fading  seen ; 

Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots  for  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for  bees, 
And,  lover's  sonnets  turned  to  holy  psalms, 

A  man  at  arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 
And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  to  age  his  alms : 

But  though  from  court  to  cottage  he  depart, 

His  saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart. 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell, 

He'll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a  song, — 
"  Blessed  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  sovereign  well, 

Curs'd  be  the  souls  that  think  her  any  wrong." 
Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right 
To  be  your  bedesman  now  that  was  your  knight. 

G.  Peek. 
280 


Time        <^y        ^>        o        ^y        *^y 

T  T  NFATHOMABLE  sea!    whose  waves  arc 

years, 

Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears  ! 

Those  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality  ! 
And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable  shore  ; 
Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in  storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  sea  ? 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


Sonnets  Ixxi.,  Ixxii.,  Ixxiii.         ^>        ^y 

"^T  O  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 

Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it  ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
O,  if  (I  say)  you  look  upon  this  verse, 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse  ; 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay  : 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 
281 


O,  lest  the  world  should  task  you  to  recite 
What  merit  liv'd  in  me,  that  you  should  love 
After  my  death, — dear  love,  forget  me  quite, 
For  you  in  me  can  nothing  worthy  prove  ; 
Unless  you  would  devise  some  virtuous  lie, 
To  do  more  for  me  than  mine  own  desert, 
And  hang  more  praise  upon  deceased  I 
Than  niggard  truth  would  willingly  impart : 
O,  lest  your  true  love  may  seem  false  in  this, 
That  you  for  love  speak  well  of  me  untrue, 
My  name  be  buried  where  my  body  is, 
And  live  no  more  to  shame  nor  me  nor  you. 
For  I  am  sham'd  by  that  which  I  bring  forth, 
And  so  would  you  to  love  things  nothing  worth. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 
strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long 

W.  Shakspere. 
282 


Stanzas        <<cy        ^>        <^y 
(From  Songs  and  Psalms) 

TV/I"  Y  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares ! 
My  feast  of  joy  is  but  a  dish  of  pain  ! 
My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a  field  of  tares  ! 

And  all  my  good  is  but  vain  hope  of  gain  ! 
My  life  is  fled,  and  yet  I  saw  no  sun  ! 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 

The  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung  ! 

The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  be  green  ! 
My  youth  is  gone,  and  yet  I  am  but  young  ! 

I  saw  the  world,  and  yet  I  am  not  seen  ! 
My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun  ! 
And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done  ! 

J.  Mundy. 

Dream  Pedlary        <^y        ^> 
(From  Poems  of  1851) 

T  F  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell ; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 


A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still 

Until  I  die. 

Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  best  would  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 


But  there  were  dreams  to  sell 

111  didst  thou  buy  ; 
Life  is  a  dream,  they  tell, 

Waking,  to  die. 
Dreaming  a  dream  to  prize, 
Is  wishing  ghosts  to  rise  ; 
And  if  I  had  the  spell 
To  call  the  buried  well, 
Which  one  would  I  ? 


If  there  are  ghosts  to  raise, 

What  shall  I  call, 
Out  of  hell's  murky  haze, 
Heaven's  blue  pall  ? 
Raise  my  loved  long-lost  boy 
To  lead  me  to  his  joy. — 

There  are  no  ghosts  to  raise  ; 
Out  of  death  lead  no  ways  ; 
Vain  is  the  call. 

284 


Know  st  thou  not  ghosts  to  sue 

No  love  thou  hast. 
Else  lie,  as  I  will  do, 

And  breathe  my  last. 
So  out  of  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fall  like  a  rose-leaf  down. 
Thus  are  the  ghosts  to  woo  ; 
Thus  are  all  dreams  made  true, 
Ever  to  last ! 

T.  L.  Bcddoes. 

Amicus  Redivivus         ^>        ^>        ^> 
(From  Last  Essays  of  Elia} 

T  DO  not  know  when  I  have  experienced  a 
stranger  sensation,  than  on  seeing  my  old 
friend  G.  D.,  who  had  been  paying  me  a  morning 
visit  a  few  Sundays  back,  at  my  cottage  at  Islington, 
upon  taking  leave,  instead  of  turning  down  the 
right  hand  path  by  which  he  had  entered — with 
staff  in  hand,  and  at  noonday,  deliberately  march 
right  forwards  into  the  midst  of  the  stream  that 
runs  by  us,  and  totally  disappear. 

A  spectacle  like  this  at  dusk  would  have  been 
appalling  enough !  but,  in  the  broad  open  daylight, 
to  witness  such  an  unreserved  motion  towards 
self-destruction  in  a  valued  friend,  took  from  me 
all  power  of  speculation. 

How  I  found  my  feet,  I  know  not.  Conscious- 
ness was  quite  gone.  Some  spirit,  not  my  own, 
whirled  me  to  the  spot.  I  remember  nothing  but  the 

285 


silvery  apparition  of  a  good  white  head  emerging ; 
nigh  which  a  staff  (the  hand  unseen  which  wielded 
it)  pointed  upwards,  as  feeling  for  the  skies.  In 
a  moment  (if  time  was  in  that  time)  he  was  on  my 
shoulders,  and  I — freighted  with  a  load  more 
precious  than  his  who  bore  Anchises. 

And  here  I  cannot  but  do  justice  to  the  officious 
zeal  of  sundry  passers-by,  who,  albeit  arriving  a 
little  late  to  participate  in  the  honours  of  the 
rescue,  in  philanthropic  shoals  came  thronging  to 
communicate  their  advice  as  to  the  recovery  ;  pre- 
scribing variously  the  application,  or  non-applica- 
tion, of  salt  &c.,  to  the  person  of  the  patient.  Life 
meantime  was  ebbing  fast  away,  amidst  the  stifle 
of  conflicting  judgments,  when  one,  more  saga- 
cious than  the  rest,  by  a  bright  thought,  proposed 
sending  for  the  Doctor.  Trite  as  the  counsel  was, 
and  impossible,  as  one  would  think,  to  be  missed 
on, — shall  I  confess?  in  this  emergency,  it  was  to 
me  as  if  an  Angel  had  spoken.  Great  previous 
exertions — and  mine  had  not  been  inconsiderable 
— are  commonly  followed  by  a  debility  of  purpose. 
This  was  a  moment  of  irresolution. 

Monoculus — for  so,  in  default  of  catching  his 
true  name,  I  choose  to  designate  the  medical 
gentleman  who  now  appeared — is  a  grave  middle- 
aged  person,  who,  without  having  studied  at  the 
college,  or  truckled  to  the  pedantry  of  a  diploma, 
hath  employed  a  great  portion  of  his  valuable  time 
in  experimental  processes  upon  the  bodies  of  un- 
fortunate fellow  creatures,  in  whom  the  vital  spark, 
286 


to  mere  vulgar  thinking,  would  seem  extinct,  and 
lost  for  ever.  He  omitteth  no  occasion  of  obtrud- 
ing his  services,  from  a  cure  of  common  surfeit- 
suffocation  to  the  ignoblest  obstructions,  sometimes 
induced  by  a  too  wilful  application  of  the  plant 
Cannabis  outwardly.  But  though  he  declineth  not 
altogether  these  drier  extinctions,  his  occupation 
tendeth  for  the  most  part  to  water-practice  ;  for  the 
convenience  of  which  he  has  judiciously  fixed  his 
quarters  near  the  grand  repository  of  the  stream 
mentioned,  where,  day  and  night,  from  his  little 
watch-tower,  at  the  Middleton's  Head,  he  listeneth 
to  detect  the  wrecks  of  drowned  mortality — partly, 
as  he  saith,  to  be  upon  the  spot — and  partly,  because 
the  liquids  which  he  useth  to  prescribe  to  himself 
and  his  patients,  on  these  distressing  occasions, 
are  ordinarily  more  conveniently  to  be  found  at  these 
common  hostelries  than  in  the  shops  and  phials 
of  the  apothecaries.  His  ear  hath  arrived  to  such 
finesse  by  practice,  that  it  is  reported  he  can 
distinguish  a  plunge  at  a  half  furlong  distance, 
and  can  tell  if  it  be  casual  or  deliberate.  He 
weareth  a  medal,  suspended  over  a  suit,  originally 
of  a  sad  brown,  but  which,  by  time,  and  frequency 
of  nightly  divings,  has  been  dinged  into  a  true 
professional  sable.  He  passeth  by  the  name  of 
Doctor,  and  is  remarkable  for  wanting  his  left  eye. 
His  remedy — after  a  sufficient  application  of  warm 
blankets,  friction,  etc.,  is  a  simple  tumbler,  or  more, 
of  the  purest  Cognac,  with  water,  made  as  hot  as 
the  convalescent  can  bear  it.  Where  he  findeth, 

287 


as  in  the  case  of  my  friend,  a  squeamish  subject, 
he  condescendeth  to  be  the  taster  ;  and  showeth,  by 
his  own  example,  the  innocuous  nature  of  the  pre- 
scription. Nothing  can  be  more  kind  or  encourag- 
ing than  this  procedure.  It  addeth  confidence  to 
the  patient,  to  see  his  medical  adviser  go  hand  in 
hand  with  himself  in  the  remedy.  When  the 
doctor  swalloweth  his  own  draught,  what  peevish 
invalid  can  refuse  to  pledge  him  in  the  potion  ? 
In  fine  Monoculus  is  a  humane,  sensible  man, 
who,  for  a  slender  pittance,  scarce  enough  to  sustain 
life,  is  content  to  wear  it  out  in  the  endeavour 
to  save  the  lives  of  others — his  pretensions  so 
moderate,  that  with  difficulty  I  could  press  a  crown 
upon  him  for  the  price  of  restoring  the  existence 
of  such  an  invaluable  creature  to  society  as  G.  D. 

It  was  pleasant  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  sub- 
siding alarm  upon  the  nerves  of  the  dear  absentee. 
It  seemed  to  have  given  a  shake  to  memory,  call- 
ing up  notice  after  notice,  of  all  the  providential 
deliverances  he  had  experienced  in  the  course  of 
his  long  and  innocent  life.  Sitting  up  in  my  couch 
— my  couch  which,  naked  and  void  of  furniture 
hitherto,  for  the  salutary  repose  which  it  ad- 
ministered, shall  be  honoured  with  costly  valance, 
at  some  price,  and  henceforth  be  a  state-bed  at 
Colebrook — he  discoursed  of  marvellous  escapes — 
by  carelessness  of  nurses — by  pails  of  gelid,  and 
kettles  of  the  boiling  element,  in  infancy — by 
orchard  pranks,  and  snapping  twigs  in  schoolboy 
frolics — by  descent  of  tiles  at  Trumpington,  and  of 
288 


heavier  tomes  at  Pembroke — by  studious  watchings, 
inducing  frightful  vigilance — by  want,  and  the  fear 
of  want,  and  all  the  sore  throbbings  of  the  learned 
head.  Anon,  he  would  burst  out  into  little  frag- 
ments of  chanting — of  songs  long  ago — ends  of 
deliverance -hymns,  not  remembered  before  since 
childhood,  but  coming  up  now,  when  his  heart  was 
made  tender  as  a  child's — for  the  tremor  cordis^  in 
the  retrospect  of  a  recent  deliverance,  as  in  a  case 
of  impending  danger,  acting  upon  an  innocent 
heart,  will  produce  a  self-tenderness,  which  we 
should  do  ill  to  christen  cowardice  ;  and  Shaks- 
peare,  in  the  latter  crisis,  has  made  his  good  Sir 
Hugh  to  remember  the  sitting  by  Babylon,  and  to 
mutter  of  shallow  rivers. 

Waters  of  Sir  Hugh  Middleton — what  a  spark 
you  were  like  to  have  extinguished  for  ever  !  Your 
salubrious  streams  to  this  City,  for  now  near  two 
centuries,  would  hardly  have  atoned  for  what  you 
were  in  a  moment  washing  away.  Mockery  of 
a  river — liquid  artifice — wretched  conduit !  hence- 
forth rank  with  canals,  and  sluggish  aqueducts. 
Was  it  for  this,  that,  smit  in  boyhood  with  the 
explorations  of  that  Abyssinian  traveller,  I  paced 
the  vales  of  Amwell  to  explore  your  tributary 
springs,  to  trace  your  salutary  waters  sparkling 
through  green  Hertfordshire,  and  cultured  Enfield 
parks  ?  Ye  have  no  swans— no  Naiads — no  river 
God — or  did  the  benevolent  hoary  aspect  of  my 
friend  tempt  ye  to  suck  him  in,  that  ye  also  might 
have  the  tutelary  genius  of  your  waters. 
U  289 


Had  he  been  drowned  in  Cam  there  would  have 
been  some  consonancy  in  it :  but  what  willows  had 
ye  to  wave  and  rustle  over  his  moist  sepulture? 
or  having  no  name,  beside  that  unmeaning  as- 
sumption of  eternal  novity,  did  ye  think  to  get  one 
by  the  noble  prize,  and  henceforth  be  termed  the 
Stream  Dyerian — 

And  could  such  spacious  virtue  find  a  grave 
Beneath  the  imposthumed  bubble  of  a  wave  ? 

I  protest  George,  you  shall  not  venture  out 
again — no,  not  by  daylight — without  a  sufficient 
pair  of  spectacles — in  your  musing  moods  espe- 
cially. Your  absence  of  mind  we  have  borne,  till 
your  presence  of  body  came  to  be  called  in  question 
by  it.  You  shall  not  go  wandering  into  Euripus 
with  Aristotle,  if  we  can  help  it.  Fie,  man,  to  turn 
dipper  at  your  years,  after  your  many  tracts  in 
favour  of  sprinkling  only. 

I  have  nothing  but  water  in  my  head  o'  nights 
since  this  frightful  accident.  Sometimes  I  am 
with  Clarence  in  his  dream.  At  others,  I  behold 
Christian  beginning  to  sink,  and  crying  out  to  his 
good  brother  Hopeful  (that  is,  to  me),  "  I  sink  in 
deep  waters  ;  the  billows  go  over  my  head,  all  the 
waters  go  over  me.  Selah."  Then  I  have  before 
me  Palinurus,  just  letting  go  the  steerage.  I  cry 
out  too  late  to  save.  Next  follow — a  mournful 
procession — suicidal  faces,  saved  against  their 
wills  from  drowning :  dolefully  trailing  a  length 
of  reluctant  gratefulness,  with  ropy  weeds  pen- 
290 


dent  from  locks  of  watchet  hue — constrained 
Lazari — Pluto's  half-subjects — stolen  fees  from  the 
grave — bilking  Charon  of  his  fare.  At  their  head 
Arion— or  is  it  G.  D.  ? — in  his  singing  garments 
marcheth  singly,  with  harp  in  hand,  and  votive 
garland,  which  Machaon  (or  Dr.  Hawes)  snatcheth 
straight,  intending  to  suspend  it  to  the  stern  God 
of  Sea.  Then  follow  dismal  streams  of  Lethe,  in 
which  the  half-drenched  on  earth  are  constrained 
to  drown  outright,  by  wharfs  where  Ophelia  twice 
acts  her  muddy  death. 

And  doubtless  there  is  some  notice  in  that 
invisible  world,  when  one  of  us  approacheth  (as 
my  friend  did  so  lately)  to  their  inexorable  pre- 
cincts. When  a  soul  knocks  once,  twice,  at  death's 
door,  the  sensation  aroused  within  the  palace 
must  be  considerable,  and  the  grim  Feature,  by 
modern  science  so  often  dispossessed  of  his  prey, 
must  have  learned  by  this  time  to  pity  Tantalus. 

A  pulse  assuredly  was  felt  along  the  line  of  the 
Elysian  Shades,  when  the  near  arrival  of  G.  D. 
was  announced  by  no  equivocal  indications.  From 
their  seats  of  Asphodel  arose  the  gentler  and  the 
graver  ghosts — poet  or  historian — of  Grecian  or 
of  Roman  love — to  crown  with  unfading  chaplets 
the  half-finished  love-labours  of  their  unwearied 
scholiast.  Him  Markland  expected — him  Tyrwhitt 
hoped  to  encounter — him  the  sweet  lyrist  of  Peter 
House,  whom  he  had  barely  seen  upon  earth,  with 
newest  airs  prepared  to  greet —  ;  and,  patron  of  the 
gentle  Christ's  boy, — who  should  have  been  his 
291 


patron  through  life — the  mild  Askew,  with  longing 
aspirations  leaned  foremost  from  his  venerable 
^Esculapian  chair,  to  welcome  into  that  happy  com- 
pany the  matured  virtues  of  the  man,  whose  tender 
scions  in  the  boy  he  himself  upon  earth  had  so 
prophetically  fed  and  watered. 

C.  Lamb. 


Dirge        *^y        *^        ^y 

(From  Sylvia] 

VI7AIL  !  wail  ye  o'er  the  dead  ! 

Wail !  wail  ye  o'er  her  ! 
Youth's  ta'en  and  Beauty's  fled  : 
O  then  deplore  her  ! 

Strew  !  strew  ye,  maidens  strew 
Sweet  flowers  and  fairest, 

Pale  rose  and  pansy  blue, 
Lily  the  rarest ! 

Lay,  lay  her  gently  down 

On  her  moss  pillow, 
While  we  our  foreheads  crown 

With  the  sad  willow  ! 

Raise,  raise  the  song  of  woe, 

Youths,  to  her  honour  ! 
Fresh  leaves  and  blossoms  throw, 

Virgins  upon  her. 

292 


Round,  round  the  cypress  bier, 

Where  she  lies  sleeping, 
On  every  turf  a  tear, 

Let  us  go  weeping. 

Wail !  wail  ye  o'er  the  dead  ! 

Wail !  wail  ye  o'er  her  ! 
Youth's  ta'en  and  Beauty's  fled  ; 

O  then  deplore  her  ! 

G.  Darlcy. 

Epitaph  on  a  Jacobite        *cy        *^> 

'T^O  my  true  king  I  offered  free  from  stain 

Courage  and  faith :  vain  faith  and  courage  vain. 
For  him  I  threw  lands,  honours,  wealth,  away 
And  one  dear  hope  that  was  more  prized  than  they. 
For  him  I  languished  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Grey-haired  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's  prime  ; 
Heard  on  La  Vernia  Scargill's  whispering  trees, 
And  pined  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees  ; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fevered  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to  weep  ; 
Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting  place  I  asked,  an  early  grave. 
Oh  thou,  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless  stone, 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once  mine  own, 
By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see, 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  spake  like  thee, 
Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.    A  broken  heart  lies  here. 

Lord  Macaulay. 
293 


Chorus        *o        -^        -*c>        *v> 

(From  Hellas] 

n^HE  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far  ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  its  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

O  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  Earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free  : 

Although  a  subtler  sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 
294 


Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime  ; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 

Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 
Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 

Than  many  unsubdued  : 
Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 
But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 
Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease  !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


Dirge  for  the  Year        ^>        ^> 

/^\RPHAN  hours,  the  year  is  dead, 

Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep  ! 
Merry  hours,  smile  instead, 

For  the  year  is  but  asleep  : 
See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping, 
Mocking  your  untimely  weeping, 

295 


As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  White  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  dead  cold  year  to-day  : 
Solemn  hours  !  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 

The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 
So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  year  : — be  calm  and  mild, 
Trembling  hours  ;  she  will  arise 
With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 

January  grey  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave  ; 
February  bears  the  bier, 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 
And  April  weeps — but,  O  ye  hours  ! 
Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 

Essay  cclxvi.         -^        *o        *^y 
(From  The  Tatler] 

TT  would  be  a  good  Appendix  to  The  Art  of 

Living  and  Dying,  if  any  one  would  write  The 

Art  of  Growing  Old,  and   teach   men   to  resign 

their  pretensions  to  the  pleasures  and  gallantries 

of  youth,  in  proportion  to  the  alteration  they  find  in 

themselves  by  the  approach  of  age  and  infirmities. 

The  infirmities  of  this  stage  of  life  would  be  much 

296 


fewer,  if  we  did  not  affect  those  which  attend  the 
more  vigourous  and  active  part  of  our  days ;  but 
instead  of  studying  to  be  wiser,  or  being  contented 
with  our  present  follies,  the  ambition  of  many  of 
us  is  also  to  be  the  same  sort  of  fools  we  formerly 
have  been.  I  have  often  argued,  as  I  am  a  pro- 
fessed lover  of  women,  that  our  sex  grows  old  with 
a  much  worse  grace  than  the  other  does ;  and 
have  ever  been  of  opinion  that  there  are  more 
well-pleased  old  women,  than  old  men.  I  thought 
it  a  good  reason  for  this,  that  the  ambition  of  the 
fair  sex  being  confined  to  advantageous  marriages, 
or  shining  in  the  eyes  of  men,  their  parts  were 
over  sooner,  and  consequently  the  errors  in  the 
performances  of  them.  The  conversation  of  this 
evening  has  not  convinced  me  of  the  contrary : 
for  one  or  two  fop- women  shall  not  make  a  balance 
for  the  crowds  of  coxcombs  amongst  ourselves, 
diversified  according  to  the  different  pursuits  of 
pleasure  and  business. 

Returning  home  this  evening  a  little  before  my 
usual  hour,  I  scarce  had  seated  myself  in  my  easy 
chair,  stirred  the  fire,  and  stroked  my  cat,  but 
I  heard  somebody  come  rumbling  upstairs.  I  saw 
my  door  opened,  and  a  human  figure  advancing 
towards  me,  so  fantastically  put  together,  that  it 
was  some  minutes  before  I  discovered  it  to  be  my 
old  and  intimate  friend  Sam  Trusty.  Immediately 
I  rose  up,  and  placed  him  in  my  own  seat :  a 
compliment  I  pay  to  few.  The  first  thing  he 
uttered,  was — "  Isaac,  fetch  me  a  cup  of  your  cherry- 
297 


brandy,  before  you  offer  to  ask  any  question."  He 
drank  a  lusty  draught,  sat  silent  for  some  time,  and 
at  last  broke  out — " I  am  come,"  quoth  he,  "to  insult 
thee  for  an  old  fantastic  dotard,  as  thou  art,  in 
ever  defending  the  women.  I  have  this  evening 
visited  two  widows  who  are  now  in  that  state  I 
have  often  heard  you  call  an  "After  life."  I  suppose 
you  mean  by  it  an  existence  which  grows  out  of 
past  entertainments,  and  is  an  untimely  delight 
in  the  satisfactions,  which  they  once  set  their 
hearts  upon  too  much  to  be  ever  able  to  relinquish. 
Have  but  patience,"  continued  he,  "until  I  give 
you  a  succinct  account  of  my  ladies,  and  of  this 
night's  adventure.  They  are  much  of  an  age,  but 
very  different  in  their  characters  :  the  one  of  them, 
with  all  the  advances  which  years  have  made  upon 
her,  goes  on  in  a  certain  romantic  road  of  love  and 
friendship  which  she  fell  into  in  her  'teens  ;  the 
other  has  transferred  the  amourous  passions  of 
her  first  years  to  the  love  of  cronies,  petts,  and 
favourites,  with  which  she  is  always  surrounded : 
but  the  genius  of  each  of  them  will  best  appear 
by  the  account  of  what  happened  to  me  at  their 
houses.  About  five  this  afternoon,  being  tired  with 
study,  the  weather  inviting,  and  time  lying  a  little 
on  my  hands,  I  resolved,  at  the  instigation  of  my 
evil  genius,  to  visit  them ;  their  husbands  having 
been  our  contemporaries.  This  I  thought  I  could 
do  without  much  trouble  ;  for  both  live  in  the  very 
next  street.  I  went  first  to  my  Lady  Camomille, 
and  the  butler,  who  had  lived  long  in  the  family, 
298 


and  seen  me  often  in  his  master's  time,  ushered 
me  very  civilly  into  the  parlour,  and  told  me, 
though  my  lady  had  given  strict  orders  to  be 
denied,  he  was  sure  I  might  be  admitted,  and  bid 
the  black  boy  acquaint  his  lady  that  I  had  come 
to  wait  upon  her.  In  the  window  lay  two  letters, 
one  broke  open  ;  the  other  fresh  sealed  with  a 
wafer :  the  first  directed  to  the  divine  Cosmelia, 
the  second  to  the  charming  Lucinda ;  but  both, 
by  the  indented  characters,  appeared  to  have  been 
writ  by  very  unsteady  hands.  Such  uncommon 
addresses  increased  my  curiosity,  and  put  me  upon 
asking  my  old  friend  the  butler  if  he  knew  who 
those  persons  were.  '  Very  well,'  says  he  :  l  This 
is  from  Mrs.  Furbish  to  my  lady,  an  old  school- 
fellow and  great  crony  of  her  ladyship's  ;  and  this 
is  the  answer.'  I  enquired  in  what  county  she 
lived.  *  Oh  dear  ! '  says  he,  *  but  just  by  in  the 
neighbourhood.  Why,  she  was  here  all  this  morn- 
ing, and  that  letter  came  and  was  answered  within 
these  two  hours.  They  have  taken  an  odd  fancy, 
you  must  know,  to  call  one  another  hard  names  : 
but  for  all  that  they  love  one  another  hugely.'  By 
this  time  the  boy  returned  with  his  lady's  humble 
service  to  me,  desiring  I  would  excuse  her :  for 
she  could  not  possibly  see  me,  nor  any  body  else, 
for  it  was  opera-night." 

"Methinks,"  says  I,  "such  innocent  folly,  as  two 

old  women's  courtship  to  each  other,  should  rather 

make  you  merry  than  put  you  out  of  humour." — 

"Peace,  good  Isaac,"  says  he,  "no  interruption,  I 

299 


beseech  you.  I  got  soon  to  Mrs.  Feeble's,  she 
that  was  formerly  Betty  Frisk :  you  must  needs 
remember  her :  Tom  Feeble  of  Brazen  Nose  fell 
in  love  with  her  for  her  fine  dancing.  Well, 
Mrs.  Ursula,  without  further  ceremony,  carries  me 
directly  up  to  her  mistress'  chamber,  where  I  found 
her  environed  by  four  of  the  most  mischievous 
animals  that  can  infest  a  family  :  an  old  shock 
dog  with  one  eye,  a  monkey  chained  to  one  side 
of  the  chimney,  a  great  grey  squirrel  to  the  other, 
and  a  parrot  waddling  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
However,  for  a  while,  all  was  in  a  profound  tran- 
quility.  Upon  the  mantle-tree,  for  I  am  a  pretty 
curious  observer,  stood  a  pot  of  lambetive  electuary, 
with  a  stick  of  liquorish,  and  near  it  a  phial  of 
rose-water  and  powder  of  tutty.  Upon  a  table  lay 
a  pipe  filled  with  betony  and  colts-foot,  a  roll  of 
wax  candle,  a  silver  spitting-pot,  and  a  Seville 
orange.  The  lady  was  placed  in  a  large  wicker 
chair,  and  her  feet  wrapped  up  in  flannel,  and 
supported  by  cushions,  and  in  this  attitude  (could 
you  believe  it  Isaac)  she  was  reading  a  romance 
with  spectacles  on.  The  first  compliments  over, 
as  she  was  industriously  endeavouring  to  enter 
upon  conversation,  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  seized 
her.  This  awaked  Shock,  and  in  a  trice  the 
whole  room  was  in  an  uproar  :  for  the  dog  barked, 
the  squirrel  squealed,  the  monkey  chattered,  the 
parrot  screamed,  and  Ursula,  to  appease  them,  was 
more  clamourous  than  all  the  rest.  You,  Isaac,  who 
know  how  any  harsh  noise  affects  my  head,  may 
300 


guess  what  I  suffered  from  the  hideous  din  of  these 
discordant  sounds.  At  length  all  was  appeased 
and  quiet  restored :  a  chair  was  drawn  for  me, 
where  I  was  no  sooner  seated,  but  the  parrot  fixed 
his  horny  beak,  as  sharp  as  a  pair  of  shears,  in 
one  of  my  heels,  just  above  the  shoe.  I  sprung 
from  the  place  with  an  unusual  agility,  and  so, 
being  within  the  monkey's  reach,  he  snatches  off 
my  new  bob-wig,  and  throws  it  upon  two  apples 
that  were  roasting  by  a  sullen  sea  coal  fire.  I  was 
nimble  enough  to  save  it  from  farther  damage  than 
singeing  the  foretop.  I  put  it  on  ;  and  composing 
myself  as  well  as  I  could,  I  drew  my  chair  towards 
the  other  side  of  the  chimney.  The  good  lady,  as 
soon  as  she  had  recovered  breath,  employed  it  in 
making  a  thousand  apologies,  and,  with  great 
eloquence,  and  a  numerous  train  of  words,  lamented 
my  misfortune.  In  the  middle  of  her  harangue,  I 
felt  something  scratching  near  my  knee,  and  feeling 
what  it  should  be,  found  the  squirrel  had  got  into  my 
coat  pocket.  As  I  endeavoured  to  remove  him  from 
his  burrow,  he  made  his  teeth  meet  through  the 
fleshy  part  of  my  forefinger.  This  gave  me  an 
inexpressible  pain.  The  Hungary  water  was  im- 
mediately brought  to  bathe  it,  and  gold-beaters'  skin 
applied  to  stop  the  blood.  The  lady  renewed  her 
excuses :  but  being  now  out  of  all  patience,  I  abruptly 
took  my  leave,  and  hobbling  downstairs  with  heedless 
haste,  I  set  my  foot  full  in  a  pail  of  water,  and  down 
we  came  to  the  bottom  together."  Here  my  friend 
concluded  his  narrative  ;  and,  with  a  composed 
301 


countenance,  I  began  to  make  him  compliments 
of  condolance  :  but  he  started  from  his  chair,  and 
said — "  Isaac,  you  may  spare  your  speeches,  I 
expect  no  reply  :  when  I  told  you  this,  I  knew  you 
would  laugh  at  me  :  but  the  next  woman  that 
makes  me  ridiculous  shall  be  a  young  one." 

R.  Steele. 


Sonnet        "O        *o        ^y        ^y 

T    I  FT  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live 

Call  Life ;  though  unreal  shapes  be  pictured 
there, 

And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
With  colours  idly  spread, — behind,  lurk  Fear 
And  Hope,  twin  Destinies  ;  who  ever  weave 
Their  shadows,  o'er  the  chasm,  sightless  and  drear. 

I  know  one  who  had  lifted  it — he  sought, 
For  his  lost  heart  was  tender,  things  to  love, 
But  found  them  not,  alas  !  nor  was  there  aught 
The  world  contains,  the  which  he  could  approve. 
Through  the  unheeding  many  he  did  move, 
A  splendour  among  shadows,  a  bright  blot 
Upon  this  gloomy  scene,  a  Spirit  that  strove 
For  truth,  and  like  the  Preacher  found  it  not. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


302 


Time        ^y        ^>        ^>        -<^y 

/^\  H  cruel  Time  !  which  takes  in  trust,1 
^^^     Our  youth,  our  joys,  and  all  we  have, 
And  pays  us  but  with  age  and  dust ; 
Who  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days. 

Sir  W.  Raleigh. 


Invocation        ^y        ^^y        ^> 

(From  the  Third  Book  of  Airs,  1617) 

r~PHRICE  toss  these  oaken  ashes  in  the  air, 

Thrice  sit  thou  mute  in  this  enchanted  chair, 
Then  thrice  times  three  tie  up  this  true  love's  knot, 
And  murmur  soft  "  She  will  or  she  will  not." 

Go  burn  these  poisonous  leaves  in  yon  blue  fire, 
These   screech-owl's  feathers   and   this   prickling 

briar, 

This  cypress  gathered  at  a  dead  man's  grave, 
That  all  my  fears  and  cares  an  end  may  have. 

Then  come,  you  fairies  !  dance  with  me  a  round  ! 
Melt  her  hard  heart  with  your  melodious  sound  ! 
In  vain  are  all  the  charms  I  can  devise  : 
She  hath  an  art  to  break  them  with  her  eyes. 

T.  Campion. 
303 


Dirge        ^>        ^y        ^y        ^y 

(From  Poems  of  1851) 

T   ET  dew  the  flowers  fill ; 

No  need  of  fell  despair, 

Though  to  the  grave  you  bear 

One  still  of  soul — but  now  too  still 

One  fair — but  now  too  fair. 
For,  beneath  your  feet,  the  mound, 
And  the  waves  that  play  around, 
Have  meaning  in  their  grassy  and  their  watery 

smiles ; 

And  with  a  thousand  sunny  wiles 
Each  says,  as  he  reproves, 
Death's  arrow  oft  is  Love's. 

T.  L.  Beddoes. 

Death's  Summons        "O        *o        "Qy 

A  DIEU  ;  farewell  earth's  bliss, 
^T    This  world  uncertain  is  : 
Fond  are  life's  lustful  joys, 
Death  proves  them  all  but  toys. 
None  from  his  darts  can  fly  : 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  I 

Rich  men,  trust  not  in  wealth, 
Gold  cannot  buy  you  health  ; 
Physic  himself  must  fade  ; 
All  things  to  end  are  made  ; 

3°4 


The  plague  full  swift  goes  by ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Beauty  is  but  a  flower, 
Which  wrinkles  will  devour  : 
Brightness  falls  from  the  air  ; 
Queens  have  died  young  and  fair  ; 
Dust  hath  closed  Helen's  eye  ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Strength  stoops  unto  the  grave  : 
Worms  feed  on  Hector  brave  ; 
Swords  may  not  fight  with  fate  : 
Earth  still  holds  ope  her  gate. 
Come,  come,  the  bells  do  cry ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 
* 

Wit  with  his  wantonness, 
Tasteth  death's  bitterness  ; 
Hell's  executioner 
Hath  no  ears  for  to  hear 
What  vain  art  can  reply  ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Haste  therefore  each  degree 
To  welcome  destiny : 
Heaven  is  our  heritage, 
Earth  but  a  players  stage. 

x  305 


Mount  we  unto  the  sky  ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 


(From  Hawthorn  and  Lavender) 


T.  Nashe. 


hills,  gray  skies,  gray  lights, 
^"^  And  still  gray  sea  — 
O  fond,  O  fair, 
The  Mays  that  were, 
When  the  wild  days  and  wilder  nights 
Made  it  like  heaven  to  be  ! 

Gray  head,  gray  heart,  gray  dreams  — 

O  breath  by  breath, 

Night-tide  and  day 

Lapse  gentle  and  gray, 

As  to  a  murmur  of  tired  streams, 

Into  the  haze  of  death. 

W.  E.  Henley 


Men  of  Genius        ^        <^ 

C  ILENT  the  Lord  of  the  world 
*^     Eyes  from  the  heavenly  height, 

Girt  by  his  far-shining  train, 
Us  who  with  banners  unfurled 
Fight  life's  many-chanced  fight 
Madly  below,  in  the  plain. 
306 


Then  said  the  Lord  to  his  own  : 
"  See  ye  the  battle  below  ? 

Turmoil  of  death  and  of  birth  ! 
Too  long  let  we  them  groan. 
Haste,  arise  ye,  and  go  ; 
Carry  my  peace  upon  earth." 

Gladly  they  rise  at  his  call ; 
Gladly  they  take  his  command  : 

Gladly  descend  to  the  plain. 
Alas  !  How  few  of  them  all — 
Those  willing  servants  shall  stand 
In  their  master's  presence  again  ! 

Some  in  the  tumult  are  lost ; 
Baffled,  bewildered,  they  stray, 

Some  as  prisoners  draw  breath, 
Others — the  bravest— are  crossed, 
On  the  height  of  their  bold-followed  way, 
By  the  swift-rushing  missile  of  Death. 

Hardly,  hardly  shall  one 

Come,  with  countenance  bright, 

O'er  the  cloud-wrapt,  perilous  plain  : 
His  Master's  errand  well  done, 
Safe  thro'  the  smoke  of  the  fight 
Back  to  his  Master  again. 

M.  Arnold. 


307 


A  Christmas  Carol        -Q>        *^» 

(From  Noble  Numbers] 

TH\ARK  and  dull  night,  fly  hence  away, 

And  give  the  honour  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  May. 

If  we  may  ask  the  reason,  say 

The  why  and  wherefore  all  things  here 

Seem  like  the  spring-time  of  the  year. 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morn 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn  ? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  mead  new  shorn, 
Thus  on  the  sudden  ? 

Come  and  see 

The  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be . 
'Tis  He  is  born,  whose  quick'ning  birth 
Gives  life  and  lustre,  public  mirth, 
To  heaven  and  the  under  earth. 

Chorus. 

We  see  Him  come,  and  know  Him  ours, 
Who,  with  His  sunshine  and  His  showers, 
Turns  all  the  patient  ground  to  flowers. 

The  darling  of  the  world  is  come, 
And  fit  it  is  we  find  a  room 
To  welcome  Him. 

The  nobler  part 

Of  all  the  house  here  is  the  heart. 
308 


Chorus. 

Which  we  will  give  Him  ;  and  bequeath 
This  holly  and  this  ivy  wreath, 
To  do  Him  honour  ;  who  3s  our  King 
And  Lord  of  all  this  revelling. 


New  Year's  Eve        < 

(From  the  Essays  of  Elia} 


R.  Herrick. 


man  hath  two  birth  days  :  two  days, 
at  least,  in  every  year,  which  set  him  upon 
revolving  the  lapse  of  time,  as  it  affects  his  mortal 
duration.  The  one  is  that  which  in  an  especial 
manner  he  termeth  his.  In  the  gradual  desuetude 
of  old  observances,  this  custom  of  solemnizing 
our  proper  birth  day  hath  nearly  passed  away,  or 
is  left  to  children,  who  reflect  nothing  at  all  about 
the  matter,  nor  understand  anything  in  it  beyond 
cake  and  orange.  But  the  birth  of  a  New  Year 
is  of  an  interest  too  wide  to  be  pretermitted  by 
king  or  cobbler.  No  one  ever  regarded  the  First 
of  January  with  indifference.  It  is  that  from 
which  all  date  their  time,  and  count  upon  what  is 
left.  It  is  the  nativity  of  our  common  Adam. 

Of  all  sound  of  all  bells  —  bells,  the  music 
nighest  bordering  upon  heaven  —  most  solemn  and 
touching  is  the  peal  which  rings  out  the  Old  Year. 
I  never  hear  it  without  a  gathering-up  of  my  mind 
to  a  concentration  of  all  the  images  that  have 
been  diffused  over  the  past  twelvemonth  ;  all  I 

3°9 


have  done  or  suffered,  performed  or  neglected — in 
that  regretted  time,  I  begin  to  know  its  worth,  as 
when  a  person  dies.  It  takes  a  personal  colour ; 
nor  was  it  a  poetical  flight  in  a  contemporary, 
when  he  exclaimed 

I  saw  the  skirts  of  the  departing  Year. 

It  is  no  more  than  what  in  sober  sadness  every 
one  of  us  seems  to  be  conscious  of,  in  that  awful 
leave  taking.  I  am  sure  I  felt  it  and  all  felt  it,  with 
me,  last  night ;  though  some  of  my  companions 
affected  rather  to  manifest  an  exhilaration  at  the 
birth  of  the  coming  year,  than  any  very  tender 
regrets  for  the  decease  of  its  predecessor.  But  I 
am  none  of  those  who — 

Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  parting  guest. 

I  am  naturally,  beforehand,  shy  of  novelties  :  new 
books,  new  faces,  new  years, — from  some  mental 
twist  in  me  which  makes  it  difficult  to  face  the 
prospective.  I  have  almost  ceased  to  hope ;  and 
am  sanguine  only  in  the  prospects  of  other  (former) 
years.  I  plunge  into  foregone  visions  and  con- 
clusions. I  encounter  pell-mell  with  past  dis- 
appointments. I  am  armour -proof  against  old 
discouragements.  I  forgive,  or  overcome  in  fancy, 
old  adversaries.  I  play  over  again  for  love,  as 
the  gamesters  phrase  it,  games,  for  which  I  once 
paid  so  dear.  I  would  scarce  now  have  any  of 
those  untoward  accidents  and  events  of  my  life 
reversed.  I  would  no  more  alter  them  than  the 
310 


incidents  of  some  well-contrived  novel.  Methinks, 
it  is  better  that  I  should  have  pined  away  seven 
of  my  goldenest  years,  when  I  was  in  thrall  to  the 

fair  hair,  and  fairer  eyes,  of  Alice  W n,  than 

that  so  passionate  a  love  adventure  should  be  lost. 
It  was  better  that  our  family  should  have  missed 
that  legacy,  which  old  Dorrell  cheated  us  of,  than 
that  I  should  have  at  this  moment  two  thousand 
pounds  in  banco,  and  be  without  the  idea  of  that 
specious  old  rogue. 

In  a  degree  beneath  manhood,  it  is  my  infirmity 
to  look  back  upon  those  early  days.  Do  I  advance 
a  paradox,  when  I  say  that  skipping  over  the  inter- 
vention of  forty  years,  a  man  may  have  leave  to 
love  himself,  without  the  imputation  of  self-love? 
If  I  know  aught  of  myself,  no  one  whose  mind  is 
introspective — and  mine  is  painfully  so — can  have 
a  less  respect  for  his  present  identity,  than  I  have 
for  the  man  Elia.  I  know  him  to  be  light,  and 
vain,  and  humoursome  ;  a  notorious  *  *  *  ;  addicted 
to  *  *  *  * .  averse  from  counsel,  neither  taking  it 
nor  offering  it ; —  *  *  *  besides  ;  a  stammering 
buffoon  ;  what  you  will :  lay  it  on,  and  spare  not ; 
I  subscribe  to  it  all,  and  much  more,  than  thou 

cans't  be  willing  to  lay  at  his  door but  for 

the  child  Elia — that  "other  one,"  there,  in  the 
background — I  must  take  leave  to  cherish  the 
remembrance  of  that  young  master — with  as  little 
reference,  I  protest,  to  this  stupid  changeling  of 
five-and-forty,  as  if  it  had  been  a  child  of  some 
other  house,  and  not  of  my  parents.  I  can  cry 


over  its  patient  smallpox  at  five,  and  rougher 
medicaments.  I  can  lay  its  poor  fevered  head 
upon  the  sick  pillow  at  Christ's,  and  wake  with  it 
in  surprise  at  the  gentle  posture  of  maternal 
tenderness  hanging  over  it,  that  unknown  had 
watched  its  sleep.  I  know  how  it  shrank  from 
any  the  least  colour  of  falsehood. — God  help  thee 
Elia,  how  art  thou  changed !  Thou  art  sophisti- 
cated.— I  know  how  honest,  how  courageous  (for 
a  weakling)  it  was — how  religious,  how  imaginative, 
how  hopeful  !  From  what  have  I  not  fallen,  if  the 
child  I  remember  was  indeed  myself, — and  not 
some  dissembling  guardian,  presenting  a  false 
identity,  to  give  the  rule  to  my  unpracticed  steps, 
and  regulate  the  tone  of  my  moral  being  ! 

That  I  am  fond  of  indulging,  beyond  a  hope 
of  sympathy,  in  such  retrospection,  may  be  the 
symptom  of  some  sickly  idiosyncrasy.  Or  is  it  owing 
to  another  cause  ;  simply,  that  being  without  wife 
or  family,  I  have  not  learned  to  project  myself 
enough  out  of  myself ;  and  having  no  offspring  of 
my  own  to  dally  with,  I  turn  back  upon  memory, 
and  adopt  my  own  early  idea,  as  my  heir  and 
favourite  ?  If  these  speculations  seem  fantastical 
to  thee,  reader— (a  busy  man  perchance),  if  I 
tread  out  of  the  way  of  thy  sympathy,  and  am 
singularly-conceited  only,  I  retire,  impenetrable  to 
ridicule,  under  the  phantom  cloud  of  Elia. 

The  Elders,  with  whom  I  was  brought  up,  were 
of  a  character  not  likely  to  let  slip  the  sacred 
observance  of  any  old  institution,  and  the  ringing 
312 


out  of  the  Old  Year  was  kept  by  them  with  circum- 
stances of  peculiar  ceremony.  In  those  days  the 
sound  of  those  midnight  chimes,  though  it  seemed 
to  rain  hilarity  in  all  around  me,  never  failed  to  bring 
a  train  of  pensive  imagery  into  my  fancy.  Yet  I 
then  scarcely  conceived  what  it  meant,  or  thought 
of  it  as  a  reckoning  that  concerned  me.  Not 
childhood  alone,  but  the  young  man  till  thirty* 
never  feels  practically  that  he  is  mortal.  He 
knows  it  indeed,  and  if  need  were,  he  could  preach 
a  homily  on  the  fragility  of  life  :  but  he  brings  it 
not  home  to  himself,  any  more  than  in  a  hot  June 
we  can  appropriate  to  our  imagination  the  freezing 
days  of  December.  But  now,  shall  I  confess  a 
truth? — I  feel  these  audits  but  too  powerfully. 
I  begin  to  count  the  probabilities  of  my  duration, 
and  to  grudge  at  the  expenditure  of  moments  and 
shortest  periods,  like  miser's  farthings.  In  pro- 
portion as  the  years  both  lessen  and  shorten,  I  set 
more  count  upon  their  periods,  and  would  fain  lay 
my  ineffectual  finger  upon  the  spoke  of  the  great 
wheel.  I  am  not  content  to  pass  away  "like  a 
weaver's  shuttle."  These  metaphors  solace  me 
not,  nor  sweeten  the  unpalatable  draught  of  mor- 
tality. I  care  not  to  be  carried  with  the  tide  that 
smoothly  bears  human  life  to  eternity ;  and  reluct 
at  the  inevitable  course  of  destiny.  I  am  in  love 
with  this  green  earth :  the  face  of  town  and 
country ;  the  unspeakable  rural  solitudes,  and  the 
sweet  security  of  streets.  I  would  set  up  my 
tabernacle  here.  I  am  content  to  stand  still  at  the 

313 


age  to  which  I  am  arrived  ;  I,  and  my  friends  :  to 
be  no  younger,  no  richer,  no  handsomer.  I  do 
not  want  to  be  wearied  by  age :  or  drop,  like 
mellow  fruit,  as  they  say,  into  the  grave. — Any 
alteration,  on  this  earth  of  mine,  in  diet  or  in 
lodging,  puzzles  and  discomposes  me.  My  house- 
hold gods  plant  a  terrible  fixed  foot,  and  are  not 
rooted  up  without  blood.  They  do  not  willingly 
seek  Lavinian  shores.  A  new  state  of  being 
staggers  me. 

Sun,  and  sky,  and  breeze,  and  solitary  walks, 
and  summer  holidays,  and  the  greenness  of  fields, 
and  the  delicious  juices  of  meats  and  fishes,  and 
society,  and  the  cheerful  glass,  and  candle-light, 
and  fireside  conversations,  and  innocent  vanities, 
and  jests  and  irony  itself— do  these  things  go  out 
with  life  ? 

Can  a  ghost  laugh,  or  shake  his  gaunt  sides, 
when  you  are  pleasant  with  him? 

And  you,  my  midnight  darlings,  my  Folios ! 
must  I  part  with  the  intense  delight  of  having  you 
(huge  armfuls)  in  my  embraces  ?  Must  knowledge 
come  to  me,  if  it  come  at  all,  by  some  awkward 
experiment  of  intuition,  and  no  longer  by  this 
familiar  process  of  reading  ? 

Shall  I  enjoy  friendships  there,  wanting  the 
smiling  indications  which  point  me  to  them  here, — 
the  recognisable  face — the  "  sweet  assurance  of  a 
look"? 

In  winter  this  intolerable  disinclination  to  dying 
— to  give  it  its  mildest  name — does  more  especially 


haunt  and  beset  me.  In  a  genial  August  noon, 
beneath  a  sweltering  sky,  death  is  almost  prob- 
lematic. At  these  times  do  such  poor  snakes  as 
myself  enjoy  an  immortality.  Then  we  expand 
and  burgeon.  Then  we  are  as  strong  again,  as 
valiant  again,  as  wise  again,  and  a  great  deal 
taller.  The  blast  that  nips  and  shrinks  me,  puts 
me  in  thoughts  of  death.  All  things  allied  to  the 
insubstantial,  wait  upon  that  master  feeling :  cold, 
numbness,  dreams,  perplexity :  moonlight  itself, 
with  its  shadowy  and  spectral  appearances, — that 
cold  ghost  of  the  sun,  or  Phoebus'  sickly  sister, 
like  that  innutritious  one  denounced  in  the  Can- 
ticles : — I  am  none  of  her  minions — I  hold  with  the 
Persian. 

Whatsoever  thwarts,  or  puts  me  out  of  my  way, 
brings  death  into  my  mind.  All  partial  evils,  like 
humours,  run  into  that  capital  plague-sore. — I  have 
heard  some  profess  an  indifference  to  life.  Such 
hail  the  end  of  their  existence  as  a  port  of  refuge ; 
and  speak  of  the  grave  as  of  some  soft  arms,  in 
which  they  may  slumber  as  on  a  pillow.  Some 
have  wooed  death — but  out  upon  thee,  I  say,  thou 
foul  ugly  phantom  !  I  detest,  abhor,  execrate,  and 
(with  Friar  John)  give  thee  to  six  score  thousand 
devils,  as  in  no  instance  to  be  excused  or  tolerated, 
but  shunned  as  a  universal  viper ;  to  be  branded, 
proscribed,  and  spoken  evil  of!  In  no  way  can 
I  be  brought  to  digest  thee,  thou  thin  melancholy 
Privation,  or  more  frightful  and  confounding 
Positive  / 


Those  antidotes,  prescribed  against  the  fear  of 
thee,  are  altogether  frigid  and  insulting,  like  thy- 
self. For  what  satisfaction  hath  a  man,  that  he 
shall  "  lie  down  with  kings  and  emperors  in 
death,"  who  in  his  lifetime  never  greatly  coveted 
the  society  of  such  bedfellows  ? — or,  forsooth,  that 
"  so  shall  the  fairest  face  appear  ? " — why,  to  com- 
fort me,  must  Alice  W n  be  a  goblin  ?  More 

than  all,  I  conceive  disgust  at  those  impertinent 
and  misbecoming  familiarities,  inscribed  upon  your 
ordinary  tombstones.  Every  dead  man  must  take 
upon  himself  to  be  lecturing  me  with  his  odious 
truism,  that  "such  as  he  now  is  I  must  shortly 
be."  Not  so  shortly,  friend,  perhaps  as  thou 
imaginest.  In  the  meantime  I  am  alive.  I  move 
about.  I  am  worth  twenty  of  thee.  Know  thy 
betters !  Thy  New  Year's  Days  are  past.  I 
survive,  a  jolly  candidate  for  1821.  Another  cup 
of  wine — and  while  that  turn-coat  bell,  that  just 
now  mournfully  chanted  the  obsequies  of  1820 
departed,  with  changed  notes  lustily  rings  in  a 
successor,  let  us  attune  to  its  peal  a  song  made  on 
a  like  occasion,  by  hearty,  cheerful  Mr.  Cotton  : — 


THE    NEW   YEAR 

Hark,  the  cock  crows,  and  yon  bright  star 
Tells  us,  the  day  himself  s  not  far  : 
And  see  where,  breaking  from  the  night, 
He  gilds  the  western  hills  with  light. 
316 


With  him  old  Janus  doth  appear, 
Peeping  into  the  future  year, 
With  such  a  look  as  seems  to  say, 
The  prospect  is  not  good  that  way. 
Thus  do  we  rise  ill  sights  to  see, 
And  'gainst  ourselves  to  prophesy  : 
When  the  prophetic  fear  of  things 
A  more  tormenting  mischief  brings, 
More  full  of  soul-tormenting  gall, 
Than  direst  mischiefs  can  befall. 
But  stay  !  but  stay  !  methinks  my  sight 
Better  inform'd  by  clearer  light, 
Discerns  sereneness  in  that  brow, 
That  all  contracted  seemed  but  now. 
His  reversed  face  may  show  distaste, 
And  frown  upon  the  ills  are  past ; 
But  that  which  this  way  looks  is  clear, 
And  smiles  upon  the  New-born  Year. 
He  looks  too  from  a  place  so  high, 
The  Year  lies  open  to  his  eye  ; 
And  all  the  moments  open  are 
To  the  exact  discoverer. 
Yet  more  and  more  he  smiles  upon 
The  happy  revolution. 
Why  should  we  then  suspect  or  fear 
The  influences  of  a  year, 
So  smiles  upon  us  the  first  morn, 
And  speaks  us  good  as  soon  as  born  ? 
Plague  on  't  the  last  was  ill  enough, 
This  cannot  but  make  better  proof ; 
Or,  at  the  worst,  as  we  brush'd  through 


The  last,  why  so  we  may  this  too  ; 

And  then  the  next  in  season  shou'd 

Be  super-excellently  good  : 

For  the  worst  ills  (we  daily  see) 

Have  no  more  perpetuity, 

Than  the  best  fortunes  that  do  fall ; 

Which  also  bring  us  wherewithal 

Longer  their  being  to  support, 

Than  those  do  of  the  other  sort : 

And  who  has  one  good  year  in  three, 

And  yet  repines  at  destiny, 

Appears  ungrateful  in  the  case, 

And  merits  not  the  good  he  has. 

Then  let  us  welcome  the  New  Guest 

With  lusty  trimness  of  the  best ; 

Mirth  always  should  Good  Fortune  meet, 

And  renders  e'en  Disaster  sweet : 

And  though  the  Princess  turn  her  back, 

Let  us  but  line  ourselves  with  sack, 

We  better  shall  by  far  hold  out, 

Till  the  next  Year  she  face  about. 


How  say  you,  reader — do  not  these  verses  smack 
of  the  rough  magnanimity  of  the  old  Englishen  vein? 
Do  they  not  fortify  like  a  cordial ;  enlarging  the 
heart,  and  productive  of  sweet  blood,  and  generous 
spirits,  in  the  concoction  ?  Where  be  those  puling 
fears  of  death,  just  now  expressed  or  affected  ? — 
Passed  like  a  cloud  —  absorbed  in  the  passing 
sunlight  of  clear  poetry— clean  washed  away  by 


a  wave  of  genuine  Helicon,  your  only  Spa  for  these 
hypochondries.  And  now  another  cup  of  the 
generous  !  and  a  Merry  New  Year,  and  many 
of  them,  to  you  all  my  masters  ! 

C.  Lamb. 


319 


PLYMOUTH 

W.   BRENDON  AND  SON,    LIMITED 
PRINTERS 


,  1  - 


r.B  11645 


